


Gazelle, Lion, Gun

by ChuckleVoodoos



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Partnership, Superheroes, Vigilante!Foggy, Vigilante!Matt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-10
Updated: 2015-08-10
Packaged: 2018-04-13 22:17:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4539438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChuckleVoodoos/pseuds/ChuckleVoodoos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Devil of Hell's Kitchen has got some competition. Sassy sharpshooters do not make good crime-fighting partners, except that they really do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gazelle, Lion, Gun

“So, you’re basically a knockoff of Hawkeye.”

 

“Okay, you can go to hell.” The man snaps. “In case you haven’t noticed, Hawkeye uses _arrows._ I use _bullets._ It’s like apples and oranges, _honestly._ ”

 

Matt grins. His new friend is incredibly easy to tease. ‘Friend’, of course, meaning the person who _shot_ Matt’s target before Matt could take the man down himself.

 

The target is breathing normally, just out cold. It’s a pain though, because now Matt’s going to have to wait around until the guy wakes up before he interrogates him. That could take ages, and it’ll be boring.

 

Or at least, it _would_ be boring without Matt’s new ‘friend’ here to entertain him.

 

“So, are you the apples or the oranges?” Matt asks innocently, and the man huffs.

 

“Well, considering I just saved your ass, I’m going to have to go with: How do you like them apples?”

 

To Matt’s horror, he can’t manage a roguish, taunting smirk at this. Instead he goes through the rather embarrassing, trembling-mouth expression that means you’re trying not to show that you’re amused but you can’t quite help it, like when a child has done something naughty.

 

“I don’t know.” Matt muses. _“Orange_ you being a little arrogant? I could have handled it.”

 

A lot of people, Matt knows, think about their laughs while they’re laughing. They want to keep them polite, attractive, energetic but not alarmingly so. Charming.

 

This man does _not_ think about his laugh while he’s laughing. It’s too giggly, too goofy for that. It’s still surprisingly charming, although this observation might be colored by the fact that Matt’s the one who _made_ him laugh.

 

“Oh, you’re fun.” The man says, delighted. “He didn’t say you’d be fun.”

 

That stops Matt short. It’s significantly easier to suppress his smile when he realizes that a lone gunman knows who Matt is, and that ‘he’ told him. Who is ‘he’?

 

“You’ve heard of me?” Matt asks warily, edging just a little away. He’d love to interrogate the unconscious mugger—part of a vicious group that doesn’t mind hurting their victims—but he can always find another one later.

 

It’s a pity, because this gunman actually laughed at Matt’s joke. That doesn’t happen very often. Oh, well. Matt slips into a more careful stance, bending his knees just a little in case he has to attack.

 

“Yeah!” The gunman says brightly, like there’s nothing menacing about this idea at all. “I have this friend who works for the police, and he says that there are all these criminal guys that keep getting nabbed, and they’re all talking about a guy in a black mask. So, I assume that’s you.” He hums thoughtfully. “Although with all these new heroes popping up, maybe not.”

 

Police. That’s both better and worse than Matt feared. It means that he doesn’t have a price on his head, not yet, but it also means the police are more aware of him than he’d like. He’ll have to work on his subtlety, or at least convince his criminals not to squeal. That could be fun.

 

“It might be me.” Matt hedges. He can’t exactly lie and say that he doesn’t wear a black mask. “I’m relatively sure I haven’t heard of you, though.”

 

The man makes a happy sound.

 

“Thank you.” He seems smug. “That’s because no one sees me coming. Long-range attacks, you know? Precision shooting.”

 

“Oh, sort of like Hawkeye.” Matt agrees easily, good humor restored. This gunman clearly doesn’t work for any criminal agencies—far too loose-lipped—and he’s making no attempt to harm Matt. He seems to want to _talk._

 

“Right, except I use a _gun.”_ The gunman reminds him deliberately. “Not a bow. And I haven’t saved the world yet, although it’s totally on my to-do list.”

 

Gun, right. Matt toes at the unconscious criminal at his feet.

 

“What did you do to him?” He wonders curiously. “He’s not dead, but he’s also not conscious.”

 

“Pressure points!” The gunman tells him brightly. “Really cool stuff. Totally sci-fi, does _not_ seem possible in real life. But hey, neither do Chitauri war whales.” Matt blinks. “Actually, this point was just supposed to shock a little—like hitting your funny bone. I think your guy just fainted because he’s a wuss.”

 

“Probably.” Matt agrees, because the man _had_ seemed a bit spineless. If this gunman hadn’t interfered, Matt probably would have been done questioning him by now. “He’s not even bleeding.” He offers when he smells no sharp iron in the air. It’s a little pathetic, honestly. The man fainted from _hitting his funny bone, o_ r at least from something like it.

 

“Yeah, not so big on blood. I hit the points, but I use non-lethal ammo.” The gunman explains earnestly. “Much less messy for everyone involved.”

 

Matt considers this for a moment. It’s good that he doesn’t have to worry about a murderous vigilante running around his city, he supposes. A non-lethal gunman isn’t ideal, but it’s better than a lethal one.

 

It’s also fairly impressive that he can hit pressure points with—it must be an air gun, much quieter firing than a standard gun and better for non-lethal shots.

 

“So you’re an expert marksman.” He points out. “Sort of like—“

 

“Don’t you dare.” The gunman growls, and Matt grins. Oh, this really _is_ fun. He doesn’t have time for fun, not at night, but it’s still a nice change of pace. “So, what did _he_ do to _you?_ Did he steal your girlfriend or something? Because you were in serious shark mode.”

 

Matt had heard a heartbeat go by the alley, but it hadn’t sounded nervous at all. Perfectly steady, and the guy was _humming,_ so Matt had assumed he was in the clear and the guy hadn’t noticed anything. He’d turned back to his mugger—and heard a strange pop-snap sound, and then the thump of his unconscious body hitting the ground. Gunshot, but quieter than any one Matt’s heard. Air rifle.

 

“Do you often jump in to shoot away strangers’ relationship problems?” Matt asks, a little derisive but also a bit interested. What exactly made this man act? There are a hundred crimes going on at any given point in Hell’s Kitchen, and almost everyone _would_ walk right on by and keep humming—even louder than before to block out any calls for help.

 

“Eh, every little bit counts.” The gunman replies sagely. “People deserve to be lucky in love just as much as they deserve to not be robbed, assaulted, or murdered.” Matt supposes this is a fair assessment, although he doesn’t focus quite so much on the ‘lucky in love’ bit himself. “So, yes to the girlfriend?”

 

“He was more of the rob, assault, murder type.” Matt tells him honestly. “And I was _going_ to make him tell me about the rest of his gang.” He nudges the man again with his foot, pointedly.

 

“Yikes, sorry.” The gunman sounds a little sheepish. “I sort of thought you were going to kill him. I was trying to keep things from getting ugly.” He hesitates. “Uh, you _weren’t_ going to kill him after you made him talk, right?”

 

“I wasn’t going to kill him.” Matt agrees, rolling his eyes. There’s a moment of silence.

 

“Okay, but were you going to make him _wish_ that you had?” The gunman asks carefully. This time Matt hesitates, then shrugs.

 

“I suppose that would depend on how well he could take a punch.” Matt muses.

 

The gunman makes a small, choked sound that Matt realizes is a burst of suppressed laughter. There, Matt thinks, is the laugh he was thinking about before. There’s the no-you-were-naughty-and-I’m-not-rewarding-that laugh.

 

“Well then.” The gunman mutters. “At least you’re honest. I guess that’s a good thing.” He clears his throat. “He should be coming back online soon, I think. Should I, um, supervise? Because I gotta tell you, I don’t really find your words reassuring.”

 

Matt actually wouldn’t mind the company, especially since this strange man actually seems to like his sense of humor. Still, at the end of the night Matt’s a loner. He always will be.

 

“We’ll be fine.” He assures the gunman. “Thank you for attempting to rescue me.”

 

“’Attempting’?” The gunman huffs. “Because _that’s_ not patronizing at all, thanks. And besides, I was trying to rescue the other guy. You’re scary.”

 

Matt smiles politely, secretly satisfied. He can be _very_ scary, thank you for noticing.

 

“Either way it was a lovely thought, but I can handle it.” He assures the gunman. “You just go home and have a nice night.”

 

“Patronizing.” The gunman mutters again, darkly. “Fine, have fun being the Lone Ranger.” There’s a sound of muffled footsteps moving away, just the slightest slide of metal on cloth—that must be the gun, Matt thinks. “Oh, hey. One last thing?”

 

"Hmm?" Matt encourages, distracted. He can hear the mugger’s breathing changing, waking up. Time to get back on track.

 

“If that dude’s working for the Fagin Gang, I found like three of them tonight. They’re currently tied up with bows— _ribbon_ bows, not Hawkeye bows, you jerk—and waiting for the police to check out the 911 calls at their locations. So, something to think about.”

 

“ _What?”_ But the gunman’s footsteps are already fading away.

 

Matt is left with a difficult decision. He can either chase after the gunman and interrogate _him_ instead, or he can stick with his current mugger and make sure about the Fagin Gang. On the one hand, the gunman seems like a much more entertaining option, but on the other hand Matt doesn’t really want to rough him up.

 

The gunman’s so talkative that he might not have to, of course, but it would still mean trailing along after him like a lovesick puppy. There is no way in hell that is happening. No, Matt will just stay here with his mugger, tie up the loose ends, and not think about the gunman. Hopefully he’ll never have to think about him again, because they’ll never _meet_ again.

 

They can both protect Hell’s Kitchen—if you can call going around and shooting random people ‘protecting’—but they can do it separately. Far, far away from each other.

 

Matt nods to himself, confident. When the man finally wakes up, Matt has him pinned to the brick wall in about a second, scariness on full blast.

 

“Are you part of the Fagin Gang?” He asks pleasantly, and is a little disappointed that the man immediately stutters a ‘yes’. It makes his job easier, but there’s no loyalty at all among petty criminals these days. It’s sad. “Fantastic. Now, what do you know about an annoying man who runs around shooting people with non-lethal bullets and offering irritating quips about apples and love?”

 

There is a very long silence. Matt lifts the man just a little off the ground by his shirt collar and shakes him pointedly.

 

“There’s, there’s a guy.” The man finally whimpers. “I don’t know about quips, but the fake bullets, yeah.” Matt shows his teeth when he smiles sharply.

 

“Keep talking. I have all night.”

 

* * *

 

There’s not much _to_ know about the gunman.

 

In fact, all the mugger can tell Matt is that he shoots people with non-lethal bullets. No face—good, if he didn't wear a mask Matt would be offended on behalf of vigilantes everywhere—no name, no description.

 

So all Matt has is a voice, but that’s enough.

 

“No, I’m fine.” The gunman says, maybe thirty feet away from Matt’s office. “Uh-huh.” And there’s the laugh again, the happy one that he doesn’t even try to hide. “Yes, Mom. Tell Nana thanks for the care package, okay?” A pause. “Yup. Love you. Bye.”

 

Matt waits very still, barely breathing, until the voice fades into the dozens of other voices around the firm. Nowhere near Matt anymore.

 

The gunman works in the same _building_ as him. Not the same floor, or else Matt would be more familiar with his voice. But he _works_ here. Does that mean he’s a lawyer too?

 

Two lawyer vigilantes working at the same company at the same time? It doesn’t seem possible, but then again nothing in Matt’s life does.

 

So, Matt knows. That’s all he needs to know, really. He can just avoid the man at work and avoid the man at night and everything will be fine. This is a good thing. This gives Matt the upper hand. He shouldn’t let himself get sucked into this black hole of interest, and he should be respecting the gunman’s right to privacy. Matt would be furious if he knew someone was poking around and digging up dirt on _his_ secret identity.

 

Matt trails cautiously after the voice, close enough to hear but not close enough to be seen. He’s got plenty of practice with stealth, although he does have to tone it down a bit in front of his coworkers.

 

He waits until opportunity strikes, which happens when the man stops to talk to a secretary.

 

It’s a simple conversation, two people that like each other alright but aren’t too close. Work friends, Matt diagnoses. Good ones though. And they’re flirting, even though neither one shows the slightest change in heart rate. Just for fun, not actually interested.

 

As soon as the gunman leaves, _humming_ again _,_ Matt makes his move.

 

“Hi, I think the man who just left dropped his keys.” Matt says apologetically, holding up his own keys for examination. “Could you give me his name and office number, and I can go drop them off?”

 

“Oh, you don’t need to do that.” The secretary assures him kindly. “I can take care of it. He comes by the desk a dozen times a day, at least.”

 

Which is great if Matt ever needs to learn his schedule and avoid him, but not so great for these particular circumstances.

 

“No, it’s fine.” Matt assures her. “I’ve been wanting to introduce myself more around the office. I can be a little quiet.”

 

Mostly because he doesn’t want people getting too interested in him. Not in any way, shape, or form.

 

“Of course.” The secretary agrees, and she sounds soothing. Motherly, almost. “You picked a good one too. Foggy loves making friends.”

 

Foggy. Matt turns the word over in his mind. There’s no way that’s actually his name. Nickname, must be.

 

“Is that the name on his file?” He teases, fishing. “It’s unique.”  The secretary laughs.

 

“Franklin.” She admits. “But he prefers Foggy. Nelson, if you meet anyone who he hasn’t already charmed.”

 

Matt hides a triumphant grin. Franklin Nelson. Perfect.

 

“I’ll just go say hello to Foggy then.” He announces cheerfully, gets the directions—a little fumbling once the secretary realizes he’s blind, but still impressively helpful—and heads off in that direction. As soon as he turns the corner, he turns, moving towards the employee file room.

 

Thank goodness Landman and Zack is paranoid enough to keep hard copies of everything, Matt thinks as he sifts through the N files. He spends a second running his fingers over the slight dips and textures of the inked names—Nadir, Naomi, Nash, _Nelson._

 

Matt settles down against the wall and reads, fingers tracing quickly over the ink.

 

Same age as Matt, got accepted as an intern at the same time as Matt, went to NYU for law school—probably almost went to Columbia, Matt thinks wryly. They appear to be a perfect match, from daytime career to moonlighting hobbies.

 

Matt runs his fingers over the file again, but there’s not much. A record of how Franklin “Foggy” Nelson has done at the company—an impressive record—and his address—which Matt commits to memory—but nothing else. Nothing more _personal._

It doesn’t say anything about shooting people with non-lethal bullets and offering irritating quips about apples and love. Not enough. Matt needs more information. If he’s going to be avoiding this man and never thinking about him again, he needs to know _everything._

 

He can’t talk to him at work without blowing his cover, so it’ll have to be at night. It might mean a little more interaction than Matt had been planning on, but it’ll be worth it. This is an unfortunate mission, but a necessary one.

 

It’s time, Matt decides, to hunt the hunter.

 

* * *

 

“ _No._ No, you get out of this alley right now and let me do my job.”

 

Matt blinks innocently, hiding a smirk.

 

“But I was only trying to help.” He says timidly, and he bites his lip—mostly because the smirk is getting harder and harder to hide.

 

“You were _not_ trying to help.” Foggy hisses. “You were trying to steal my mark. I had a perfect shot, and you just—you were like a lion on the Discovery Channel, and he was a law-breaking gazelle.”

 

It _had_ been a pretty impressive tackle, in Matt’s opinion. The law-breaking gazelle tries to wiggle away a little, and Matt presses him down again and keeps one foot on his back to discourage future escapes.

 

“You looked like you were having some trouble.” Matt argues, and it’s a bit like setting off a powder keg.

 

“You did it on purpose, didn’t you?” Foggy growls. “You messed with my mark just to make a point.” Matt lets a little of the smirk show through. “Fine, point taken. You are a jerk. I should avoid you at all costs, and I certainly shouldn’t help you again because apparently no good deed goes unpunished.”

 

“It was a very nice gesture.” Matt allows. “But I didn’t need it. Did you?”

 

“No.” Foggy grits out. Matt nods sagely.

 

“So, we’re even. You stay away from my work, and I’ll stay away from yours.”

 

Foggy seems to consider this, and then he sighs.

 

“Do we just run if we see the other person coming, or are we actually going to do this the smart way? Plan around each other?”

 

There’s no way that Matt’s skipping a night out, not when there’s something strange going on in Hell’s Kitchen and he needs all the information he can get.

 

“You take north, I’ll take south.” He offers. “Starting at Amity Street.” Foggy snorts.

 

“Are you kidding me? South’s where all the action is. North is the decent half.” This is true. Foggy’s a little more knowledgeable about the city than Matt hoped. He must have lived here before he started shooting people.

 

“Don't worry. They’re both seething hotbeds of criminal activity.” Matt soothes. Foggy does not seem impressed. “Look, we’ll switch off. You do Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays down south, and I’ll to Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays and Sundays.”

 

“You get an extra day!” Foggy accuses. “That’s not fair.” Matt shrugs.

 

“The world’s not fair.” He reminds Foggy pleasantly. “Why? Do you really want to fight me for it?”

 

They’re at close range. There’s no way Foggy can beat him in a full-body brawl, and Foggy seems to know it too.

 

“I hate you.” He mutters. Matt grins. “Fine. You picked the sucky days anyway. Sunday’s the day of rest, man.”

 

This is true. Matt plans to pray before breakfast and fight after dinner, with frequent reflections on many his sins in between.

 

“God will understand.” Matt tells him flatly. “Let’s start tonight. Get out of my half of the city.”

 

Shockingly, Foggy doesn’t even protest this order.

 

“Well, _I_ can be reasonable, unlike some people.” He says pointedly. “So, okay. Have a lovely night out. Paint the town red—uh, not literally. I’ve heard you can get a little too bloody. I don’t want to clean up after you tomorrow.”

 

Matt takes a deep breath to keep from tackling _Foggy_ like he’s a law-breaking gazelle. He grits his teeth into a smile.

 

“Go away. Now.”

 

* * *

 

The reason that Foggy was so happy to leave is because it was Friday.

 

On Saturday, the gazelle thug says, there is a jewelry heist taking place on the south side. A team that knows their way around alarms and a mom-and-pop business that trusts the community not to rob them. They barely even lock their doors.

 

Foggy _knew._

 

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Foggy whispers fiercely as Matt settles in beside him on the roof. Matt engaged in a very remarkable demonstration of parkour to get there—he wonders if Foggy is impressed. “It’s Saturday, you bastard.”

 

“Well, yes.” Matt agrees easily. “But clearly this is an exception.”

 

“Why, because it’s a _crime?”_ Foggy asks lowly. “Are all crimes going to be exceptions?”

 

“Well, the ones on Saturday are.” Matt tries to explain. It’s the wrong thing to say.

 

“I cannot believe what a _dick_ you are.” Foggy groans. “Why did we even make this deal when we’re both going to cheat?” Matt blinks.

 

“You were going to cheat?” He wonders, startled. Foggy hums in agreement.

 

“Yeah, sure.” He admits without a hint of shame. “Because I knew _you’d_ cheat first.”

 

Matt can’t really deny it. He was pretty much always planning to cheat.

 

“So, we work together on this one?” Matt offers hesitantly. “And we don’t split the city officially, but we try to avoid each other?” Foggy sighs.

 

“What other choice do we have? Either you punch me or I shoot you every time we see each other? Wouldn’t leave much time for crime-fighting.” Matt nods the point. He thinks he could probably dodge a few bullets, but he’s still not _quite_ sure how good a shot Foggy is.

 

“Just this once, then.” Matt says reluctantly. He works alone, but he can make an exception just this once to keep the peace.

 

“Right. Obviously. Just this once.” Foggy agrees quickly. “And no more cheating. We do it right.”  

 

Matt nods absently, listening as he hears footsteps approaching—quiet, about a dozen, fairly well-prepared.

 

“Party’s starting.” Matt muses. “Try not to shoot me instead of the target.” He leaps down, and can’t hold back a grin when he hears Foggy muttering behind him.

 

“Who says you’re _not_ the target?”

 

Matt runs into the fight laughing.

 

Just this once can’t hurt.

 

* * *

 

“Oh, hi. I didn’t see you there.”

 

Matt waits for the gasp or the muffled curse with banked glee. He’s been quiet as a mouse on mute, biding his time. There were a few times that he was worried he’d have to step in, but Foggy is better at handling himself than Matt thought.

 

He shoots first and asks questions later.

 

And most of the time, the criminals are eager to talk. Matt is baffled when he first arrives about why this might be, until Foggy has a quick chat with one of the men that he took down. It’s fascinating to hear: pop-snap-whoosh, a yelp, and someone dropping like a stone. And then, a few minutes later, the questions.

 

Foggy, Matt discovers, is very persuasive. Well, that makes sense—he’s a lawyer for one the best law firms in the state. He’d have to be good about persuasion. And so is Matt, obviously, but Foggy…

 

Foggy’s _nice_ about it. He has pleasant chats at gunpoint with the people he catches, and once he gets the information he wants to know—with Matt taking mental notes to steal the intel and use it later—he either ties them up and calls them in for arrest, or else he advises them to keep on walking until they get out of shooting range.

 

Then he leaves, and he’s _humming._

It’s infuriating and also a little extraordinary, so Matt waits until Foggy’s gotten information on a drug den—Matt will hit the location later this week—and then he drops down in front of him and says ‘Oh, hi. I didn’t see you there.’

 

And it’s true, Matt thinks with a burst of smug satisfaction. He _didn’t_ see Foggy there. Doubly clever.

 

“Seriously?” Foggy sighs. “ _Seriously?_ We said no cheating.”

 

“Right, but I was cheating when I said that.” Matt explains earnestly, moving closer. “Besides, I’m not here to poach your crooks. I just felt like we had a real connection.”

 

A second later he’s got the barrel of a rifle pressed oh-so-gently against his chest.

 

“Did you?” Foggy wonders with menacing sweetness. Matt nods earnestly, hands held pleadingly in the air—better position to grab the gun. Matt can probably take a non-lethal, even pointblank, but Foggy’s probably got more than one bullet. “So if I said that we should skip the crime-fighting tonight and go grab a romantic dinner, you would say…?”

 

Matt winces.

 

“I had a late lunch?” He offers weakly. “But we could work up an appetite.” Foggy snorts.

 

“And let me guess. We will skip doing that the fun way and instead work up an appetite by _fighting crime.”_ Matt doesn’t dare shrug. Instead he just smiles winningly. “You really do have a one-track mind, don’t you?”

 

“I’m committed to my city.” Matt admits.

 

“Hell’s Kitchen is lucky to have such a devoted boyfriend.” Foggy mutters darkly, but he pulls the gun away. “Look, are you just going to keep following me all night and trying to cover your tracks with flirting?” Matt hesitates, and then nods. Foggy sighs. “Fine. My game’s getting rusty anyway. Just don’t get in my way.”

 

“Me get in _your_ way?” Matt asks, offended. “What if you get in _my_ way?”

 

“Then you can push me out of it.” Foggy offers generously. “And I’ll shoot you out of mine. Let’s not get to that point.” He advises kindly. “So, deal?”

 

Matt works alone. He does not work with _anyone,_ let alone with sassy sharpshooters. Sassy sharpshooters who laugh at his jokes and provide flawless defense during jewelry heist fights.

 

“Does that mean I shouldn’t flirt anymore?” Matt asks hesitantly. Foggy laughs.

 

“Hell no. Flirting is a requirement.” He corrects Matt cheerfully. “It’s sort of hilarious how bad at it you are. I could use some entertainment.”

 

Matt frowns.

 

“I’ve been told I’m quite charming.” He argues. “Every one of my exes has said so.”

 

“And yet they’re your _exes_.” Foggy points out wryly. Matt’s frown deepens. “Hey, don’t worry. You _are_ sort of charming in this weird, intense way. Why do you think I’m letting you flirt with me?”

 

“Oh.” Matt’s not sure if this is a compliment. Foggy leaves him a little off-kilter. Charming is good, and weird isn’t automatically _bad._ “Alright then. There’s a drug dealer a few blocks away. Do you want to go beat him up with me?”

 

There is a moment of silence.

 

“That’s flirting for you, isn’t it?” Foggy sounds honestly stunned. “That is actually what you consider flirting.” He laughs, and it’s a happy sound. “Yeah, sure. Let’s go beat up a drug dealer. Sounds romantic.”

 

Matt grins and turns to go.

 

“I thought so.”

 

* * *

 

Foggy is incredibly easy to flirt with.

 

Matt already knew that Foggy liked flirting—he’d heard it with the secretary that first day. Foggy’s a social creature, and he likes talking. Bantering, joking, philosophizing.

 

Flirting. Lots of flirting.

 

And it’s fun. Usually when Matt’s flirting with people, it’s something a little awkward. No matter how well he flirts—and Foggy’s wrong, Matt is _very_ good at it—Matt’s never fully tuned in. He flirts with everyone and no one. He’s not really interested in a relationship, and he feels guilty about leading people on.

 

Foggy’s easy. He’s not expecting anything, and that makes it much easier to relax. Matt can just flirt for fun and not worry about the consequences.

“I can’t believe your tactics sometimes. Some of your threats make no _sense,_ you know? But then you say them in that growly voice and they’re scary. You’re so _mean._ ” Foggy giggles, tugging Matt along through the alleyways. Matt smiles and lets himself be led.

 

Foggy doesn’t know about his blindness—he’d probably figure it out in a second if he saw blind Matt at work after a night with blind Matt in a mask. It’s not something pitying or solicitous when he leads Matt. It’s just someone who’s excited, who likes pulling other people along on their adventures. A connection.

 

And he lets Matt pull him along on adventures too.

 

He doesn’t always find Foggy. Matt goes out more often than Foggy does, so there are some nights that he just isn’t there to talk to. Then there are other ones when Matt’s busy when he hears Foggy’s heartbeat, so he just finishes his work and goes home.

 

Matt is also very careful not to go too much even when he does have the chance, because he doesn’t want to seem clingy. That’s not what this is about. This is about occasional support from a capable companion, good conversation, and engaging flirting. Nothing that would involve the possibility of clinging.

 

“I’m not mean.” Matt protests. “You’re the one who shot him.” Foggy snorts.

 

“Okay, with a beanbag bullet. It barely even left a bruise—although may I say that it was a beautiful shot. Down for the count, one hit.”

 

It was a beautiful shot. Matt had heard it connect, and then the man hitting the ground. Working with Foggy certainly makes things easier, Matt muses. If it’s a one-on-one thing, Matt doesn’t even have to fight. He just gets to do the menacing bit, which is pretty fun on its own. The nights that Foggy isn’t there, Matt gets all the anger and darker urges out, and then the nights _with_ Foggy are almost…almost _vacations._

 

He still gets work done, but it’s easier. It’s _fun._

 

“How _did_ you get to be so good a shot?” Matt wonders. He’s been curious for a while. Foggy always hits the target, even in the dark and from a distance.

 

Foggy slows to a walk, and then stops.

 

“Oh, you mean like my origin story?” He asks, interested. Matt snorts.

 

“This isn’t a comic book.” He points out wryly, but Foggy just stays silent. Matt sighs. “Yes. What’s your origin story?”

 

“Man, I should have prepared a speech.” Foggy laments. “Can we sit down first? I can’t walk and spin a hearty yarn at the same time.”

 

Matt rolls his eyes but nods. He doesn’t really want to sit on the ground in a dirty alley, but there’s a fire escape—there, five feet ahead and one to the left. Matt knows every inch of this area.

 

“Oh, wow. This _view.”_ Foggy breathes when Matt leads him up to the rooftop. “It’s amazing. Perfect for a dramatic origin story.”

 

Is it? Matt looks out towards where he knows the city is, as they settle down on the edge and let their legs dangle over. He’d always thought it might be, but it’s nice to know for sure. It makes him a little wistful about what might have been, but at least one of them can appreciate it.

 

“This had better be a fantastic origin story.” Matt teases. Foggy laughs.

 

“Don’t pressure me.” He chides, and then pauses to take a breath, readying himself. “Okay, so…I grew up in Hell’s Kitchen, right?” Matt nods, because Foggy’s mentioned this before. “Alright, but my mom’s family is from Alaska, so I spent my summers at my Nana's house in Nome for family reunions. And I mean, Alaska’s kind of the last frontier, the icy Wild West, so—there were a lot of gun sports, you know?”

 

“Okay.” Matt says warily. “So you were a hunter?” Foggy makes a shocked sound.

 

“God, no. Kill a cute fuzzy moose? I couldn’t stomach it.” Foggy tells him quickly. “No, I was more into paintball, BBs, _air rifles._ I mean, you pretty much had to use a gun or else you’d get shunned, so I picked the lesser evil. And I was little—I can’t have been more than seven, but they start you young there. So, we were shooting targets, paper ones, that sort of thing, and I find my cousin, but he’s not shooting a paper one.”

 

Matt winces.

 

“What was he shooting?” He asks, trepidation filling him. Foggy makes a growling sort of sound that makes Matt think that he’s still not over the experience.

 

“He was shooting a puppy.” Foggy tells him flatly. “A little puppy, and he was laughing. And I mean, a person can survive a few pellets, but a puppy? They’re tiny. So I shot my cousin.” He says it very matter-of-factly, like gunning down his cousin is nothing to worry about. Granted, it _was_ with a children’s air rifle, but that must have hurt. “A lot. And then I took the puppy and ran—told people he was a wolf pup I found in the wilderness and planned to raise as my own son.”

 

“And you got away with it?” Matt asks, stunned. Foggy laughs.

 

“Hell no. My cousin sang like a canary and I got in huge trouble. But Nana heard him, and she came upstairs when I was stuck in my room without dinner and gave me dessert as a reward. Said my cousin had it coming and I should practice more.” He laughs. “And by practice, she meant engage in a hardcore training montage with her for the next eleven years.”

 

“Your _grandmother_ taught you how to shoot people?” Matt can’t quite believe it. It’s especially strange because apparently they both got taken under the wing of an elderly teacher to learn the arts of war. Foggy got a grandmother who snuck him dessert though. Matt only got given ice cream _once_ to make a _point._ How is that fair?

 

“Nana’s terrifying.” Foggy explains cheerfully. “First time my mom brought my dad home, Nana shot a circle around him on the lawn, then pointed a shotgun at his head and said there was more where that came from if he ever hurt her daughter.” He laughs. “She does it for all the in-laws. It’s a rite of passage.”

 

Matt feels a sense of deep pity for any poor soul stupid enough to marry into the Nelson family.

 

“So, your grandmother taught you how to shoot bullies.” Matt repeats, just to make sure. “And you just made the logical transition from spoiled brats to hardened criminals later on?”

 

“Well, yeah.” Foggy says cheerfully, like this _is_ a logical step. “I mean, why not? Have you seen the crime rate statistics for this city? And I’ve got to keep my skills sharp anyway.” He nudges Matt’s foot with his own. “Plus I got to meet you, so it was clearly the best idea in the world.”

 

Matt can’t help but smile at that, shifting to wrap an arm around Foggy’s shoulders.

 

It’s not just the flirting that Matt likes. Matt just likes _Foggy._ Foggy’s easygoing and funny and smart, and he doesn’t expect too much of Matt.

 

And Foggy’s warm and smells like spices, and Matt really does love it. Foggy feels _right_ , touching Matt. A puzzle piece clicking into place.

 

“The best.” He agrees. He’ll have to send Foggy’s Nana a thank-you card—unsigned, because he doesn’t want her tracking him down. She might do the in-law treatment just because Matt likes flirting with Foggy.

 

“Oh!” Foggy exclaims. “Your turn. What’s your origin story?”

 

Matt considers making up something cool and a little quirky like Foggy’s story was, but dismisses the thought a moment later. He wants Foggy to know the truth.

 

“There was a man who liked to hurt his daughter.” Matt tells him quietly. “I hurt him back. I kept hurting people. And then I met you.”

 

There is silence for a few moments, and then Matt feels careful fingers touching his wrist where it rests on Foggy’s shoulder, Foggy reaching up to grip his hand.

 

“Good story.” He murmurs softly. “I like the ending.”

 

Matt swallows, throat tight.

 

“Yeah. Me too.”

 

* * *

 

Flirting with Foggy isn’t enough anymore.

 

It’s about a week after the ‘origin story incident’, and things have gotten different. Deeper. They’re talking more about their pasts. Matt keeps the details vague to protect his identity—he’s already tempting fate by working with Foggy at all—although Foggy seems happy to share everything short of names.

 

And even though Matt plays his cards a little closer to his chest, he’s still sharing more than he’s done in years. _Decades—_ he stopped trusting people when he was nine years old, and he never quite started back up again. But he trusts Foggy, at least this much.

 

And that’s the problem. He’s getting closer to Foggy emotionally, and that leads to wanting to get closer to Foggy _physically._

 

Foggy’s warm. He’s softer than Matt is, but when they brush against each other Matt can feel that there’s a certain learned firmness to his frame—recent increase in exercise. Running around in a mask all night is an extreme workout plan, but an effective one. He smells amazing, all those spices that Matt can’t quite place, the ones he’s not sure exist anywhere else. And he’s got steady, talented hands and a smart mouth.

 

So there are plenty of reasons to be attracted to Foggy, really. There is also really no reason to act on it, except that it seems like a fantastic idea at the time.

 

It’s one of the hardest nights they’ve had while working together, and Matt grudgingly admits that he might have been a little ambitious in picking this fight. They make it though, and it’s exhilarating. Afterwards they run back towards their origin story roof. There’s a thump as Foggy drops his bag, and a scratch of brick on cloth as he stops to rest against an alley wall.

 

“I think I love this.” Foggy admits, and he’s breathless and warm and close and too tempting to resist. He leans forward, cupping Foggy’s cheek with one hand.

 

“Can I?” He begs. Matt’s a little desperate at this point.  He feels drugged on the excitement of the night, and this has been bubbling away in the back of his mind for days. And Foggy understands the feeling, Matt knows he does.

 

Foggy loves it. 

 

“Oh.” Foggy’s heart speeds up with something other than adrenaline. He takes a shaky breath. “Yeah.”

 

Matt grins and leans in.

 

He wants to be careful and test it out before he goes too far, but Foggy’s lips are surprisingly soft, and he must have been chewing gum before he met up with Matt because he tastes like Juicy Fruit. Matt hasn’t had it in years, but all the fond memories come rushing back in a wave of warmth.

 

A taste from his past and a taste from his future.

 

Matt sort of wants to taste more, so he pushes. Literally pushes, pressing Foggy a little more against the wall and licking along his lips to find the flavor. Foggy gives a hum of approval and deepens the kiss more, pushing back just as hard into it and placing a hand against Matt’s back to pull him closer.

 

They should have been doing this sooner. They’re friends, they’re attracted to each other, and neither one of them has had sex in a very long time—Matt has never smelled salt and sex on Foggy, only his natural spice. This is the ideal solution.

 

Sex and fighting and Foggy, and no messy relationships or complicated dating.

 

Despite how deep the kiss is, it’s not something fierce or animalistic. It’s one of the most intense kisses of Matt’s life, but there’s also something tender about it.

 

“Mm, I think I love this too.” Foggy murmurs when Matt pulls away just enough to let him breathe. Matt nods, content. He smiles when Foggy dips his head to press light kisses along Matt’s jaw and neck, titling his own head back just a little to make it easier.

 

“Mm-hmm.” Matt agrees, not able to manage anything more than sighs for a while. He presses one last lingering kiss to Foggy’s mouth before pulling away. “You look beautiful.”

 

And it’s true. Matt can’t see the details, but he can see the heat, the sounds, everything else. Matt sees a world on fire, a painting make of broad strokes and bright flames. People are sketches, vague but sometimes still attractive in an abstract way. They’re watercolors, bleeding into the world around them, indistinct but interesting. They’re not the prettiest things, sometimes, but at least they’re something to look at. But Foggy, _Foggy…_

 

Foggy is a work of art.

 

“You’re not so bad yourself.” Foggy compliments cheerfully. “Not to be creepy, but your mouth is _amazing._ It’s just this really pretty cherry red right now, and you’ve got this cute little Cupid’s bow and your lips are so…” He presses a quick, hard kiss to Matt’s mouth. “Perfect.”

 

Matt smiles, pleased. His lips are about the only part of him that Foggy can see, but they seem to be making a pretty good impression all on their own.

 

He’s going to show Foggy the whole thing, eventually. He hopes Foggy still likes it.

 

“You’re not so bad yourself.” He returns teasingly, brushing his thumb across Foggy’s lower lip. It’s true. Foggy’s mouth is fantastic, soft lips and clever tongue and traces of sweetness from the gum.

 

Foggy smiles, lips catching just a little on the pad of Matt’s thumb. Matt swallows and pulls his fingers away.

 

“So, is this going to be a casual thing like the flirting, or are we going steady?” Foggy asks. Matt can’t quite tell if he’s joking or not—Foggy’s tone is light, but there’s something odd about it. Nervous? Excited? Or maybe just dazed from kissing.

 

Matt decides to take the question seriously, even if Foggy wasn’t serious when he asked it.

 

If Matt were going to date anyone in the world, it would probably be Foggy. He likes Foggy very much, and they have incredible chemistry together. Foggy’s a fantastic kisser and Matt would bet good money that he’s a fantastic everything else too. They clearly work well together, and they’re happy.

 

And that’s the problem. They’re happy, and Matt’s not willing to anything that would put that in jeopardy. Foggy was right about Matt’s exes—every single relationship Matt’s been in has ended badly. He hasn’t talked to any of his old flames since their breakups, and he doubts he will in the future. Their _flames_ burned right out, but only after scorching away everything good that was between them.

 

That _can’t_ happen with Foggy.

 

“I’m not very good at relationships.” Matt admits carefully. “It’s not that you’re not an amazing person. Any man or woman would be lucky to have you, it’s just—“

 

Foggy strokes his cheek. Matt stops talking.

 

“Hey, it’s okay.” Foggy soothes. “You don’t want anything serious, that’s fine. Nothing wrong with a little fun between friends though, right?”

 

“Nothing.” Matt agrees quickly. “Or even a lot of fun.” He hesitates. “Thank you.”

 

“No, thank _you.”_ Foggy teases. “I’m the one who gets to play with all of _this_.” He runs a light finger along Matt’s cheek, over his lips and down his jaw. Not much room to play with, Matt muses ruefully, but Foggy seems happy with it.

 

“You got the worse end of the bargain.” Matt tells him honestly. “But I won’t argue.”

 

This is perfect, actually. Foggy seems to be the answer to every one of Matt’s prayers. He’s the companion that Matt never knew he needed in the mask, and he’s a new friend that Matt thinks he’ll want to meet _out of_ the mask, someday. And now Matt gets to kiss him too. All of the good parts of a relationship, and none of the painful ones. None of the parts that Matt can screw up.

 

Perfect. A simple relationship, nothing serious. Nothing exclusive.

 

Just a little fun between friends.

 

* * *

 

“Hey there, cupcake. Missed you last night.”

 

Matt sighs and settles in next to Foggy on their origin story roof, immediately resting his head against Foggy’s shoulder and leaning into him.

 

“Long night.” Matt admits. “Sorry. I meant to come find you, but it got a little hectic.”

 

He could have used Foggy’s help last night, but Matt has a tendency to rush into things headfirst. He’s been getting better since he met Foggy, but sometimes it still happens.

 

“Yeah?” Foggy asks, wrapping an arm around him and rubbing his shoulder comfortingly. “What happened?”

 

“Human trafficker.” Matt explains. “A man named Turk and a lot of girls. Young ones. Scared ones.”

 

“Oh.” Foggy squeezes his shoulders. Matt doesn’t have to say anything else. Young, scared girls being threatened is one of Matt’s triggers. It reminds him of the first time he fought back, the little girl crying in the night. “You got him though?”

 

“Got him.” Matt agrees. “Got the girls out too.”

 

“Good job, hero.” Foggy praises, and Matt manages a tired smile. He’s sore—he barely got through work today, and he might have taken the night off except he wanted to talk to Foggy.

 

“Thanks.” Matt sighs. “So, how was your night?”

 

He hadn’t heard Foggy’s heartbeat near him during the fight, which means Foggy was either at home or somewhere else out of range.

 

“Okay.” Foggy’s voice is thoughtful. “I got a woman’s phone number.”

 

Matt freezes, his whole body going tense.

 

“Did you?” He asks neutrally. “How did you meet her?”

 

They’re not exclusive, Matt reminds himself. They’re not even _dating._ Matt’s the one who chose not to start a serious relationship. And what they have is good. It works. They don’t need anything else.

 

Except that Foggy needs a random woman’s phone number, apparently.

 

“I found her and her friend heavily drugged and about to pass out.” Foggy explains easily. “So I helped them up to her apartment, only it turns out that the reason they were drugged was because there was someone coming to kill them, so…that was fun.”

 

 _“What?”_ Matt asks, pulling away. He can’t stare at Foggy, but he can try his hardest to anyway. “You fought an _assassin_?”

 

Stopping Turk and the traffickers was important. Matt can’t have just let that happen and run to Foggy instead. He _knows_ that. But the idea of Foggy taking on a trained killer without Matt there to guard him is terrifying.

 

“Well, I _shot_ an assassin.” Foggy corrects him. “Although he could take a hit. Definitely trained. I had to use the good stuff at close range. Thought I’d run out of bullets and have to start a slap fight, honestly.” Foggy chuckles. “But I got him. I think he was more of a hand-to-hand kind of guy—didn’t really see a gun coming.”

 

“And you left?” Matt urges. That’s what they do. They solve the problem, and they leave.

 

They do not get random women’s phone numbers.

 

“Well, Karen and Daniel—those are the two drugged people—were a little less groggy by then, so we tied the guy up and towed him down the street to an alley. Karen called the police in the morning, and she also called the papers. Apparently they wanted to topple a huge business for doing some dirty dealings, and someone was _not_ happy about it. But hey, we won the day and stopped crime in its tracks, and then Karen gave me a hug and her number if I ever wanted to hang out.”

 

Hang out.

 

“We don’t do that.” Matt reminds him, groaning. “Secret identities, remember? Are you really planning to go have dinner with her while wearing a _mask_?”

 

“Probably not.” Foggy admits. “But we could still talk on the phone. It would be nice—she’s the first person I’ve rescued who actually wants to stay in touch. Oh, Daniel does too.” He adds, remembering. “Quiet guy, works in legal. Has a tiny crush on Karen, I think. Seems solid enough. He stuck around through an assassination attempt, anyway.”

 

Matt relaxes a little. It’s not as bad as he thought. This Karen really only seems to want to be friends with Foggy, and she has a distraction in the form of Daniel. And both Foggy and Matt saved people, in a way that they couldn’t have if they were together. They needed to split up.

 

It’s just that they haven’t been splitting up much lately, not since they started their ‘fun’ together. Matt feels strange without Foggy there, unbalanced. He’s used to Foggy watching his back and rewarding Matt afterwards for a good night’s work. Just kissing and some significant touching, all above clothes, but Matt thinks they’re working their way up.

 

He’ll need to tell Foggy his identity before it gets too far. Their first time is not taking place pressed against a wall in a dank alleyway like they’re a prostitute and his john, and it’s not taking place while they’re wearing _masks._ If they’re naked, then they’re _naked_ —nothing between them.

 

“I don’t have your number.” Matt tries not to sound too hurt by this thought. Why does a woman Foggy just met get to have Foggy’s phone number, when Matt’s been having fun with him for weeks?

 

“Neither does she. It’s a burner.” Foggy’s voice is comforting. He obviously picked up on Matt’s distress. “Which I bought yesterday so I could talk to you, actually. We should have a way to tell each other about what’s going on. Assassins and human trafficking rings, you know?” He hesitates. “And maybe a good morning or two?”

 

He’s serious, Matt realizes with a hint of shock. He wants them to say good morning to each other. That would mean letting their nights leak into their days. Matt already spends almost every waking hour with Foggy, although Foggy doesn’t know it yet. All day at work and all night in the masks.

 

Should he really be adding mornings to that mix?

 

“I can do a good morning.” Matt agrees instead of trying to say no in a nice way. The fact is that Foggy’s right—they need to communicate more. And it’s not like saying good morning to Foggy is something awful. It actually sounds like a very pleasant idea. Too pleasant.

 

“This is so cool.” Foggy enthuses. “Burner phones for our many nights of law-breaking and torrid kissing affairs.” Matt smiles, exasperated.

 

“I don’t know if I’d call our kissing affairs torrid.” He points out. “They’re pretty tame, actually.”

 

“Really?” Foggy challenges, and spends the next three minutes proving Matt wrong. “Tame, huh?”

 

“I don’t know.” Matt muses, his mood picking up for the first time tonight. “I could use a little more convincing. If you—“

 

Foggy’s phone rings. It’s got to be the burner.

 

For an awful moment, Matt wonders if it’s Karen calling. Foggy’s sitting right here next to Matt, but what if he decides to take the call? What if he _leaves_ to take the call? They’ve just started engaging in one of their many ‘torrid kissing affairs’. Foggy can’t leave _now._

“Oh, it’s Nana!” Foggy announces cheerfully. “She sent me a care package today. Do you mind if I say thank-you really fast?”

 

Matt shakes his head immediately, relieved. Foggy’s grandmother. Not Karen.

 

“Go ahead.” He encourages, moving to let Foggy stand. Foggy presses a quick kiss to the side of his head as he goes.

 

“Hi, Nana.” Foggy greets happily. “I got your package. The cookies were great. The sawed-off shotgun was…a nice gesture.”

 

It is at this point that Matt finally makes the connection between Nana’s many ‘care packages’ and Foggy’s hobbies.

 

“No, Nana. It was really sweet, but—“ Foggy stops, and Matt hears a rather steely voice talking low enough that Matt can’t hear the words. Only the menace. “But I already have a _regular_ shotgun. I never use it.” Another low string of words. “Because I can get the point across without blowing out someone’s kneecaps. Yes, really. Shocking, I know.”

 

Matt is more than a little disturbed. _This_ is Foggy’s Nana? This woman who is telling Foggy to blow out people’s _kneecaps_ and sending him _shotgun care packages?_ Foggy grew up with this woman and he’s not a _serial killer_?

 

This has got to be a minor miracle.

 

“Yes, I still bring it for protection.” Foggy admits. “Every time, I promise.” Is that one of the guns in Foggy’s bag? One of the ones he doesn’t use? “But I don’t need it. I’ve got something better now.”

 

Matt. Matt is the ‘something better’, he realizes, and just the thought makes him feel warm.

 

“No, I am not going to explain that cryptic statement.” Foggy says cheerfully. Thank god. Nana would find Matt and kill him, Matt just knows it. Foggy’s voice gets quieter, going down to a low whisper. “Hey, do you want to say hi?” He asks Matt, almost silent in his question.

 

Matt shakes his head hastily. Nana probably has voice-recognition and a bazooka on hand. He’s groping her grandson on an almost daily basis. There’s no way she’d approve of him as a match for Foggy.

 

“Okay, Nana. I have to go.” There is a low, extra menacing murmur. Foggy laughs. “Don’t get all mushy on me. I need to work.”

 

That’s _mushy?_ Judging from what Matt can hear, it sounded like a death threat.

 

Foggy says goodbye and hangs up.

 

“Sorry, but she gets a little testy if I don’t say thank you.” Foggy explains. Matt nods, dazed.

 

“No, good plan. Very nice of you.” He does _not_ want to know what a testy Nana is like. “Do you actually have a shotgun in your bag right now?” He asks, concerned. Foggy hums in agreement.

 

“Sure.” He says easily. “I never use it though. Mom and Dad don’t want me to have it at all, but then again they don’t want me doing _any_ of this.”

 

Matt freezes.

 

“Does your _entire family_ know about this?” He asks disbelievingly, gesturing around them and towards the bag in particular.

 

“Nah, just the close ones.” Foggy corrects him sunnily. “So, Nana and my parents, and then my three sisters. Not their husbands, although I think they'd would be cool with it. Maybe one day.”

 

Matt is astonished and a little afraid. Is Foggy’s secret identity a secret from _anyone?_ What happens if one of them gives it away? Foggy trusts his family, obviously, but Matt knows that people are people. You can only trust them so far, even the ones you like.

 

“Does your police friend know?” Matt asks warily. He does _not_ want to get arrested because of Foggy’s trusting nature. Foggy’s clearly a danger to himself—he’s a sitting duck.

 

It’s a good thing Matt’s here to protect him now.

 

“I’m not really sure.” Foggy admits thoughtfully. “I feel like he probably does, but he’s never mentioned it. Probably less of a conflict of interest if he pretends it doesn’t exist.” Matt swallows. They’re doomed. “Hey, don’t worry. None of them know anything about you. I wouldn’t do that to you.”

 

And that should make Matt feel better, but now all he can think of is the fact that Foggy hasn’t told his family about Matt. Does he not _want_ to? He tells them everything else—why not that he’s got Matt now?

 

Then again, what would he tell them? ‘I know this guy and he really likes seducing me in dark alleyways, but he won’t tell me his name or show me his face. Oh, and he also has unresolved rage issues and an extreme violent streak. Great boyfriend material, right Nana?’

 

“Did you tell them about the mask?” Matt wonders, off-kilter. “Or did they find out?”

 

“I told them.” Foggy says, like this is the obvious answer. “Before I went out the first time. I mean, I was going to be putting my life in danger. They deserved to know why.”

 

“And they didn’t mind?” Matt asks incredulously. It’s hard to imagine.

 

“Well, my mom really wanted me to be a butcher.” Foggy explains. “But she was already out of luck on that score. I’m not sure if she likes this better than my day job or not. My dad was cool with it—he collects newspaper clippings from the stuff I do. My sisters think I’m nuts, but they always did. And Nana…Dad says it was the first time she ever smiled while he was in the room, the day I told them.”

 

Matt is never meeting Nana. _Never._

 

“How did you know they’d be okay with it?” Matt has no idea how you would go about deciding that. It’s a little hard to bring up in casual conversation.

 

“I didn’t.” Foggy tells him simply. “I just told them anyway.” He hesitates. “You would have told your dad, wouldn’t you?”

 

Matt goes still. It’s a strange question. Foggy knows that Matt’s father has been dead for a very long time, years before Matt even imagined wearing the mask. Matt had never really thought about it.

 

He’d thought about it every single day.

 

“He didn’t want me to fight.” Matt whispers, sick. “He never wanted me to fight.”

 

“I think he might not have wanted you to _pick_ fights.” Foggy says tentatively. “There’s a pretty big difference between fighting for fun and fighting for the people who can’t defend themselves. And I didn’t know your dad, but from what you’ve said? I think he’d be really proud of you.”

 

Matt’s not so sure about that, but just the thought of it makes him feel warm down to his bones.

 

He thinks about Foggy, talking and laughing with his family about what he does. It’s something open, something accepted. From the things Foggy has said, his family _supports_ him in it. Would Matt’s father have been the same way?

 

“Yeah.” Matt whispers. “Maybe he would.”

 

* * *

 

Matt really should have called for backup.

 

Although, he supposes backup came anyway. Claire’s a godsend, and Matt’s not sure he could have made it through the night without her. Definitely a new asset, and possibly a new friend.

 

Unfortunately, no matter how talented a nurse Claire is, Matt is still in immense pain the next day at work.

 

This might not be entirely unmanageable, except for the fact that Foggy decides to come visit him.

 

Not Foggy the Sharpshooter visiting Matt the Street-Fighter. Foggy the Attorney from Floor B, Office F visiting Matt the Other Attorney from Floor D, Office D.

 

Matt barely has time to get out of his office and hidden in the restroom before Foggy gets to his door.

 

“Hello? Mr. Murdock?” Foggy calls. “Um, Matthew? Can I call you Matthew?” There’s a long moment of silence, and then Foggy sighs. “Of course I can’t, because you’re not here.”

 

Matt winces. Foggy sounds tired—Matt wonders if he had a long night too. Matt should have checked in, but he’s been in a trance all day, just barely scraping by.

 

“Fantastic.” Foggy mutters. “I guess I’ll just come back later. It’s not like there’s a deadline or anything.”

 

The door clicks shut. Matt breathes a sigh of relief, listening as Foggy’s footsteps fade away. He’s edging his way towards the door when his phone rings.

 

Matt closes his eyes for a brief second, pained. Then he picks up.

 

“This is new.” Matt tries to say casually, moving away from the door again. Foggy’s still on Floor D—Matt will have to talk quietly. “Is something wrong?”

 

Foggy hesitates.

 

“Uh, no.” He admits. “I just sort of wanted to talk to you. It’s been kind of a long day.” He _sounds_ like it’s been a long day—tired, a little worn and weary. “Sorry, I know these are supposed to be for ‘work’-related stuff.”

 

He sounds regretful, so Matt swallows down his panic and smiles.

 

“And good mornings.” He points out kindly. “Why not good afternoons too?”

 

“Really?” Foggy asks, delighted. Matt makes a sound of agreement. “Thank you so much. I feel like I’ve been going crazy all day.”

 

“Mm, work or social problems?” Matt asks, leaning against the bathroom wall. Thank goodness that Landman and Zack is so obsessive about good impressions and cleanliness. Even _Matt_ can’t find anything to complain about.

 

“Well, you pretty much _are_ my social life, along with way too many bruised-up baddies.” Foggy points out. “Work…Ugh. There’s this project I have to finish, only I need some info from downstairs, and the guy I’m supposed to talk to is _never there.”_

 

“Oh?” Matt asks, keeping his tone as even as possible. “Never?”

 

He’s gotten in a routine of taking long walks whenever Foggy heads up to his floor, just to be sure. Matt has noticed with some satisfaction that Foggy barely ever flirts with the secretary anymore—he seems to be saving all his best lines for Matt. But he still comes by the desk a dozen or so times a day for work reasons, which means he walks past Matt’s office a dozen times a day.

 

Matt’s been taking a lot of walks.

 

“Never.” Foggy repeats, exasperated. “It’s like he’s a ghost or something. Everyone keeps telling me that he’s married to his work, but they must be going through a rough patch because I haven’t seen him working once. Hell, I’ve never even been introduced to him. Maybe he _is_ a ghost.”

 

“Maybe he’s just busy. Running errands, going to meetings, that sort of thing.” Matt offers vaguely. “I’m sure he doesn’t mean to make things difficult for you.” He doesn’t.

 

“Yeah, I guess.” Foggy sighs. “I’ll figure it out. Maybe I can just camp out in his office all day with snacks and a good book. He’s got to come back eventually, right?”

 

“You’ll scare the poor man to death.” Matt teases, feeling another pang of anxiety. Foggy won’t actually try that, will he? Matt can’t just hide forever. He _does_ have to go back to his office at some point. “What sort of project are you working on?”

 

Foggy laughs.

 

“Don’t you try to be sneaky.” He scolds. “You’re the one who said no details about life and work. I’m just following the rules.”

 

“But we always cheat when it comes to rules.” Matt points out. “You could just share a little. One detail.” Anything to keep him distracted. Foggy tends to wander when he’s distracted, pace. The more talking he does, the farther away from Matt’s office he’s going to get.

 

“Fine. Just one.” Foggy says firmly. “I wear a really snappy suit. How about you?”

 

“I’m not sure my clothing would qualify as ‘snappy’.” Matt admits, tugging at his tie. Functional, well-tailored, yes. Snappy? Matt’s not quite sure what that entails. Whatever Foggy wears, apparently.

 

“It’s hard to imagine you in anything but your skintight black beatnik outfit.” Foggy muses. “It looks so good on you.”

 

“It does?” Matt can’t help but be a little flattered. He’d gotten the outfit because it was good for camouflage and didn’t hinder movement, but looking nice is always a plus. “I wasn’t sure.”

 

He actually had _no_ idea how it looked on him. It’s not like he can snap a selfie and check.

 

“Mm-hmm, very nice.” Foggy agrees easily. “So, what are you wearing now? Something sexy?”

 

Matt might be worried about imminent phone sex—which would _not_ be a good idea to have in a company bathroom where anyone could walk in—except for the fact that Foggy’s barely containing a giggle as he talks. Matt rolls his eyes.

 

“Whipped cream and a G-string.” He deadpans. Foggy gives a startled burst of delighted laughter. “How about you?”

 

“Not even a G-string.” Foggy tells him cheerfully. “Ditched the snappy suit. I’m naked like a glistening, golden god.” Matt shakes his head, grinning.

 

“Nice.” He praises indulgently. “But I don’t worship false gods.”

 

“I think I could convince you.” Foggy says, and it’s such an exaggerated purr that Matt laughs.

 

“I look forward to it.” He promises. “Tonight?” Foggy makes a noise of agreement.

 

“Sure, if I ever manage to track this Matthew guy down and get the information I need.” Foggy agrees wryly. “Wish me luck, yeah?”

 

“Good luck.” Matt offers obediently, mind already racing. He’s going to have to ask around, find out what files Foggy needs and somehow get them to him without being seen.

 

“Thank you.” Foggy sounds genuinely grateful. “I’m…I’m really glad I got to talk to you. I sort of needed this.”

 

Matt bites his lip. The affection in Foggy’s voice is staggering. It should make Matt uncomfortable, because this is teetering alarmingly close to a full-blown relationship despite all of Matt’s mental declarations to the contrary. Instead he just feels warm.

 

“Anytime.”

 

* * *

 

“Mm, you’re in a good mood tonight.”

 

Foggy hums happily, sucking briefly at Matt’s lower lip in the next kiss and trailing a hand dangerously low down Matt's back before finally pulling away.

 

“I am in an incredibly good mood.” Foggy informs him airily. “That Matthew guy I told you about? He got me the paperwork I needed, plus a dozen other files I hadn’t even thought to ask for.” Good, Foggy liked it. Matt had spent an hour tracking all of them down in inked copy. “I still think he might be a ghost, but as least he’s a friendly one.”

 

“I’m glad.” Matt tells him honestly. “So you finished your project, which was about…?”

 

“Ha, cute.” Foggy huffs. “Not happening.” Matt shrugs, unrepentant. “But yes, I finished. In fact, I finished early, so I had time to work on my _other_ project.”

 

Matt blinks at him.

 

“The Union Allied project?” He recalls. Foggy had mentioned he was working on it, but he hadn’t said a word about it in weeks. Matt had thought it was a dead end.

 

“Yeah. Danny was checking around, looking at some of the stuff going on behind the scenes—what a trooper, that Danny Fisher. Took a drugging and kept on chugging.” Foggy compliments. “So, he says there’s a paper trail, a couple other big businesses that are all connected, legally speaking. Well, legally connected as fronts for _illegal_ business. He thinks there’s someone who’s got all of them under his thumb—or her thumb, I guess.”

 

“Someone in the shadows?” Matt murmurs. “A ringleader.”

 

“A _kingpin.”_ Foggy agrees, sounding a little excited. “One big enchilada. There’s a million things going wrong in this city right now, a lot of stuff that’s weird even for a screwed up city like Hell’s Kitchen. So, if there’s one guy who’s the one behind it all, and we nab him…”

 

“Cut the head off the snake.” Matt finishes softly.

 

“Kind of a gruesome metaphor, but yeah.” Foggy replies. “So, come on. Who’s the best hero in Hell’s Kitchen?” Matt smiles absently.

 

“I am.” He decides easily. “But you’re a very close second.”

 

“And you’re very close to getting shot in the crotch.” Foggy tells him pleasantly.

 

“You’d need a gun for that, dearheart.” Matt reminds him, teasingly domestic. He finds with a small stir of surprise that the endearment rolls effortlessly off his tongue. Strange. Matt’s never been one for the fluffier parts of a romance.

 

…Is this a romance?

 

“Hey, good idea.” Foggy says, pointedly cheerful. Matt swallows when Foggy ducks out of his arms, and a moment later there’s the sound of a zipper as he roots through his bag. “Where is it…Darn, I should have taken out my softball stuff out. Now it’s all messy.”

 

Matt blinks.

 

“Softball stuff?” He repeats blankly. “Is this another idiosyncratic fighting style? Bullets that don’t draw blood and sinister sporting equipment?”

 

“I happen to have a mean swing with a bat, yes.” Foggy sounds quite prim. “But I always use my softball bag to carry my guns. Perfect size, you know? Long and innocuous. I can just walk down the street and wave, and no one suspects a thing.”

 

“No one finds anything suspicious about a man in dark clothes and a _mask_ walking down a dangerous street with a gun-shaped bag?” Matt asks skeptically. Foggy snorts.

 

“Well obviously I take the mask off first.” He corrects Matt. “And it’s not a gun-shaped bag, it’s a _bat-shaped_ bag that happens to _contain_ guns.”

 

“Right.” Matt pretends that this makes sense. At least it explains why Foggy hasn’t been caught yet. “So, exactly how many guns does your bat-shaped bag contain?” He’s a little wary of the answer.

 

“Hmm, let’s see…” There’s a rustle, and then a light clink of metal on cement. And then another. And then another. “Smith and Wesson revolver, IMI Magnum Desert Eagle, two air rifles with different barrel sizes for maximum ammo versatility, and Nana’s special smoothbore shotgun.” Foggy must sense Matt’s terror, because he laughs. “No worries, none of them are loaded with lethal right now. Plastic baton rounds, stinger round rubber buckshot, beanbag bullets and pepperballs—oh, and of course my signature customized diabolo rounds.”

 

“Diablo?” Matt repeats, confused. “Like the Devil?”

 

That seems a little too much like fate for Matt’s comfort. Two Devils fighting side-by-side, tied together by a bond of passion and a darker love of justice? Not likely.

 

“Diabolo. It’s a bullet shape thing. Although you know, they are vicious little buggers. Sort of devilish.” Foggy muses. “But I’m not just pulling out guns to scare you—although your face is hilarious. I’m actually trying to find…aha!”

 

A thick sheaf of papers is pushed into Matt’s hands.

 

“Did you write me a romance novel?” Matt asks wryly, feeling the heft of the pages.

 

“Erotica, but I left it in my other bat-bag.” Foggy mourns sarcastically. “No, this is all the legal info that Danny and his dorky lawyer friends dug up. Not the best pleasure reading, but you might be able to find something I missed. Plus I want as many copies of this around as we can get, just in case something happens.”

 

“Nothing’s going to happen.” Matt comforts automatically, before a startling thought strikes. “You really think I could find something in this? It must be entirely in legalese.”

 

It’s practically a _book_ of hard legal data. There’s no one someone without the proper education could sift through it. Why would Foggy think Matt could?

 

“Nah, it’s not bad.” Foggy assures him. “I’m pretty sure Danny thinks I’m stupid, so he accordingly dumbed down his reports.” He doesn’t sound angry about this at all, although Matt is angry on his behalf. There’s no way Danny is as brilliant as Foggy is. “And you can be a bit obsessive, you know? About the little details. You nitpick—which I find entirely charming, so stop pouting.” Matt scowls. “So you should use your powers for good and sniff out clues.”

 

Foggy does sound honestly charmed by Matt’s apparent ‘obsessive nitpicking’, so Matt lets it slide. It’s not entirely untrue, to his chagrin. Besides, Foggy’s clearly working hard on this, and if he’s right it could change everything. If it leads back to this mysterious kingpin…

 

“I’ll do my best.” Matt promises, shifting to get the papers into a more comfortable position. Matt’s in good shape, so the fact that the reports feel heavy is alarming.

 

“Great. Thanks.” Foggy sighs, relieved. A moment or two of silence goes by. “Are you actually going to read them?” He prods, amused.

 

Oh. Matt swallows. He can’t actually read them. He’d have to run his fingers over every word, and it would be pretty hard to explain that without explaining being blind, and then Foggy will see blind Matt at work and figure it out in a second.

 

“Mask.” Matt rasps. “It’s not thin enough to make out words in the dark. I can’t…” He might be able to. He has no idea if the material is thin enough to see through or not. It’s just the only excuse he can think of.

 

“I’ll turn away.” Foggy urges, and there’s a hint of—oh, no. There’s a hint of _hurt_ in his voice. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to snap a picture of you and send it in to the New York Bulletin.” He sighs, frustrated. “No, you know what? How about I just go? I’ll go chase some poor criminal down, and you can read the reports without having to worry about me ogling you.”

 

“I’m not worried about that.” Matt tells him, stung. “I just—I’m not ready yet. I will be. I promise.” Foggy doesn’t say anything. “Soon, okay?”

 

What must be a full minute of silence goes by. Finally there are the clinks and clatters of the guns being put back in the back. The first one goes in with a little more force than necessary, and Matt winces. By the time the last one’s being added though—the air rifles, both at once—it’s soft. Gentle.

 

“Okay. Soon.” Foggy agrees quietly. “Call me if you find anything.”

 

“I will.” Matt promises, and then hesitates. “Can we…?”

 

He doesn’t want Foggy to leave when he’s annoyed, at least not without some positive memories to mull over too.

 

“Yeah.” Foggy says immediately. It’s hard to do anything with the papers in the way, so Foggy ends up just leaning over the pile to kiss Matt’s cheek, half on the mask and half on Matt’s skin. “I’ll see you soon.”

 

There’s still something a little subdued about his tone as he leaves, but Matt forces himself to ignore it. He gets a firmer hold on the papers and starts the long journey home. It’ll take hours to sift through this.

 

It takes less time than Matt thought, actually. He’d skimmed several of these files today—right before he’d put them on Foggy’s desk to help with his project. Landman and Zack’s most lucrative deals of the past year.

 

So, this was his project at _work,_ too. And reading through the files, much more closely and with the others to compare, the picture becomes clear: Landman and Zack is one of the kingpin’s pet companies.

 

This changes everything. Matt’s been working for the villains. He hasn’t been _doing_ their work—he’s not that kind of lawyer—but he’s in the same office as the people who are. And so is Foggy.

 

He dials.

 

“What do we know about Leland Owlsley?” Matt asks after a hurried hello. “He’s in at least a dozen of these.”

 

“You think he’s in on it?” Foggy guesses. Matt notices with a pang of guilt that he sounds groggy—voice a little thick, words slow and punctuated with a yawn in the middle. He must have been asleep when Matt called.

 

The pang of guilt isn’t nearly as bad as it should be, because Foggy when he’s just woken up sounds absolutely lovely. Somehow even his voice is sleep-rumpled and warm. Matt wishes that he could do this in person instead, but showing up at Foggy’s apartment with no explanation might freak him out. Just maybe.

 

“Money man.” Matt agrees. “We’ll work on him, along with the Russians. They’re acting up lately, even more than usual. Criminal and corporate angles, both at once.”

 

“Yeah, okay.” Foggy agrees, although he still only sounds half-awake. “Divide and conquer, or stick together like badass glue?”

 

Matt considers. Owlsley seems soft, more of a white-collar crime man than a hardened killer. With him, it’ll just be a matter of intimidation and information extraction. The Russians though, that’s more likely to end in bloodshed. Less a mission, more a war.

 

“Divide.” He decides. “You get more information on Owlsley, and I’ll get more on the Russians.”

 

“And then we swap notes and plan a strategy?” Foggy finishes. Matt makes a sound of agreement. If he’s lucky, he can get the Russian investigation done and over with before Foggy gets involved. Then they can work on Owlsley together.

 

Foggy’s not made for war. Matt is.

 

“Exactly.” Matt not-quite-lies. “I’m sorry, I just got a little intense. Obsessive.” He adds with a sigh when Foggy huffs. “Nitpicking. Yes, I know. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

 

“Nah, it’s cool.” Foggy assures him with another, longer yawn. “Although I _was_ having a very nice dream.” He doesn’t sound annoyed that Matt interrupted the dream, more teasing than anything, so Matt smiles.

 

“And what was your nice dream about?” He asks, setting aside the papers to get ready for bed. He puts the phone on speaker and tosses it on his bed while he gets changed.

 

“Well, you were there.” Foggy says meaningfully. Matt pauses with his shirt halfway off. “So, _very_ nice.”

 

“Are you really flirting with me less than a minute after discussing criminal syndicates?” Matt can’t help but grin when Foggy gives an enthusiastic sound of agreement. Yet another reason that he and Foggy work so well together—talking about crime and punishment isn’t an automatic turn-off. “Okay, what was I doing in this nice dream?”

 

This is probably pushing it, but Matt likes a little danger.

 

“Wearing whipped cream, no G-string.” Foggy answers easily. Matt snorts in what is probably an entirely unsexy way, and Foggy laughs. “Not wearing anything else either. Just whipped cream—oh, and a cherry on top.”

 

Matt blinks, a strange mix of arousal and unease rippling through him. Foggy was imagining him naked—or at least joking about imagining it—which means that he was imagining Matt without the mask.

 

What exactly does he think Matt looks like? What if Matt doesn’t measure up?

 

“It’s cold out.” Matt reminds him, pushing away the anxiety. Matt knows he’s attractive, and Foggy already likes him for his personality. He’ll like whatever Matt looks like too. Probably. “I’m not sure the whipped cream would keep me warm.”

 

“Well, it’s very fluffy whipped cream. Very thick.” Foggy assures him. “Besides, I’d keep you warm. All night long.” The sultriness is somewhat ruined when he bursts out laughing, and Matt rolls his eyes.

 

“Promises, promises.” He drawls. “Well, I’ll get the whipped cream if you get some _sleep._ You sounded tired tonight.”

 

“And I went out and caught two purse-snatchers after I left. I’m beat.” Foggy agrees dozily. “Okay, bedtime—but just a nap. Then whipped cream.” He explains sagely. Matt hums in tolerant agreement. “Don’t forget the cherry.”

 

“I’m getting it now.” Matt lies. “Go to sleep. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

 

“Mm-hmm.” Foggy mumbles. “Okay. Fight crime, save city, whipped cream. Good plan.” He yawns one more time. “Night-night.”

 

“Goodnight.” Matt replies, amused. Still a little inconveniently aroused, but that should be easy to take care of. Foggy hums.

 

“Hey, you know what?” He whispers thoughtfully. “You have pretty eyes. I liked them even more than I liked the cherry on top.”

 

And he starts snoring. 

 

Matt stays very still for a moment, and then finishes getting changed for bed. Pretty eyes. Well, Foggy will probably change his mind after he sees them. Matt knows that a lot of people get uneasy about his eyes—one of the reasons he keeps them covered as often as possible, day and night. The idea that Foggy might feel that way about them is painful, but Matt knows he’ll have to face it one day.

 

He just can’t, not yet. Something’s holding him back.

 

Fear, he thinks. It’s the same thing that’s keeping him from telling Foggy that he might someday, somehow, maybe want something more between them than a little fun between friends. Matt’s scared of change, of something going wrong in his fragilely happy life. Everything’s still so delicate now, and Matt’s scared of messing things up.

 

Matt thought that he was a man without fear.

 

He was wrong.

 

* * *

 

Matt thinks that he’s going to die here.

 

He’s not sure how much time he has, but there’s time. There’s at least time for one quick phone call. Matt’s finger hovers over the button. _Just press it, just tell him before it’s too late._

 

He calls Claire instead.

 

“You have his number. You can tell him everything. _Everything._ And I need you to take care of him, okay?” Matt begs. “If he’s hurt, if he’s sick, if he’s _anything_ bad, just—take care of him.”

 

Claire doesn’t bother asking who he’s talking about. She doesn’t know Foggy’s name, but she knows plenty of other things. Matt talks about him enough.

 

“That’s your job.” She tells him bluntly. “He isn’t with you?”

 

“No.” Matt says, and he’s grateful for that. “I thought I could do this one on my own. I didn’t tell him. Thank god.”

 

The oily feel of dust and blood congealing on his skin. The smell of burning flesh from the road flare and smoke from the explosions. The labored sound of Vladimir’s faltering breath and the rumbling of panic erupting outside. Tasting iron and helpless anger, bitter in his mouth.

 

And Foggy’s somewhere safe. He’s not here, and he’s not dying.

 

Thank god.

 

“Matt, don’t do this.” Claire orders shakily. “You’re acting like you’ve already given up.”

 

There’s not much left to give up. Matt hears the footsteps coming closer. There’s the familiar sound of metal moving—guns—but it’s different than the sound Foggy’s make. Heavier somehow, harsher.

 

Cold.

 

“Not yet.” Matt promises. Just soon. “But if something happens, promise you’ll take care of him.”

 

Logically, it makes no sense. Foggy was taking care of himself for years before he met Matt. He’s strong and smart, and he doesn’t need someone to babysit him. The only thing that might put him in danger is his nightly activities, and he was doing just fine on that score too before he shot Matt’s mugger.

 

Foggy doesn’t need someone to take care of him, but _Matt_ needs to know that Foggy’s being taken care of. He just wanted to be the one doing the caring.

 

“I promise.” Claire says quietly. Matt nods, sick.

 

One more thing. Just one more, and then Matt can face what’s coming. No matter what happens, he can.

 

“Tell him that I love him.”

 

* * *

 

Matt doesn’t die.

 

“You idiot, this is why you call me!” Foggy snaps. He seems to be going for angry, but all Matt gets out of it is a sense of bone-melting relief.

 

He’s not sure if that’s what Foggy’s voice is conveying, or just what it’s making Matt feel.

 

“I’m okay. I’m alright.” Matt soothes, pressing his forehead against the cool glass of his apartment window and closing his eyes. He can hear the dull buzz of the billboard matching the static of his headache. “Just a little worn-out. I think I might stay in tonight.”

 

“Yeah, of course.” Foggy agrees quickly. “You need to keep a low profile. I think I should be okay. I mean, there was a sniper, but I honestly think the papers are just going to pin that one on you too, even though _I_ actually _do_ shoot people. You tend to step on way more toes than me, and you’re a much flashier threat.”

 

“Thanks.” Matt mutters, tone dry.

 

“Oh, please. You probably took that as a compliment.” Foggy teases, but it’s a little worn. “Look, I…staying in is a good idea, but if you wanted I could stay in with you?” Foggy’s voice cracks a bit on the last few words.

 

Matt’s eyes snap open.

 

“You mean coming here?” He asks, stunned. Foggy clears his throat, awkward.

 

“Or my place, or somewhere else more neutral.” He adds hastily. “I just—I worry about you, you know? And you could keep your mask on, I wouldn’t peek. I’d just want to....” He laughs, a little strained. “I don’t know. Sappy stuff. You don’t need me bothering you with all of that when you’re feeling crummy.”

 

_Yes, I do._

‘Sappy stuff’ sounds perfect. Matt wants Foggy to come over right now, finally run his fingers through Matt’s hair without the mask in the way, rub away the headache from his temples and let Matt just hold him until Matt feels less fractured.

 

Matt’s hand clenches around the mask in his hand.

 

He needs to finish this. Get Owlsley, get his boss, end this once and for all. And Foggy can’t be involved.

 

One of the things that just kept running through Matt’s head over and over in that building was that he was so glad that Foggy wasn’t there with him. Foggy can take care of himself, but this isn’t the sort of thing you can just take care of. Things are going to get messy, bloody.

 

Foggy shoots criminals with bruising bullets. No blood, no mess, and then he chats with them until they tell him what he wants to know. Matt thinks a few of the criminals actually _like_ Foggy by the end of it.

 

They can’t chat their way out of this. It will take fighting, force and fury and pure brutality. People are going to get hurt.

 

Foggy is not going to be one of those people.

 

“I’m probably just going to sleep for a while until I feel human again.” Matt offers apologetically, illness rising with the words. “But I’ll talk to you soon, okay? Then sappy stuff. As much as you want.”

 

For a second, only Foggy’s breathing comes across on the line. There’s a slight hitch, and then it evens out very carefully.

 

“…Yeah.” Foggy says softly. “Good. You just get some rest. Stay in bed and don’t move an inch until you feel better, okay?” Matt makes a noise of agreement. “You’ll call before you go out again, right? So I can watch your back?”

 

Matt feels even worse than he did before Foggy called.

 

“Of course I will.” He promises, hoarse. “I couldn’t function without your horrible humming.”

 

He couldn’t. That’s why he has to do this alone. Then he can relax and work with Foggy again. _Be_ with Foggy again.

 

“You charmer.” Foggy sounds a little brighter in the face of the teasing. “Okay. Be good.”

 

Matt straightens, stepping back from the window.

 

“I will.”

 

* * *

 

“So, did you miraculously heal in the last three hours, or are you actually my friend’s evil twin?”

 

Matt winces. Foggy sounds _extremely_ unhappy.

 

Matt can’t blame him. Here he is wandering around the city after promising to stay in bed, and he’s not alone.

 

“I was feeling a little better, and an…acquaintance asked for help.”

 

Stick snorts, although Matt’s not sure if it’s at the thought of being an acquaintance or the thought of ‘asking’ for help.

 

“An acquaintance.” Foggy repeats flatly. Matt nods. “And exactly what sort of help does your incredibly sketchy-looking acquaintance need? And why does it involve—is that a fucking _crossbow?”_

 

“Is that a gun with no bullets?” Stick returns, a little viciously. Foggy laughs, and it’s not a nice sound.

 

“I don’t know. Why don’t you stand still and let me test it?” Stick takes a breath, undoubtedly to antagonize Foggy more, and Matt really does not want the two of them fighting. Even if Foggy won, he’d still be hurt. Stick is a merciless fighter.

 

Matt steps in between them.

 

“We’re finding a weapon.” He explains to Foggy, and Foggy snorts.

 

“Looks like you already found one. _Crossbow._ ” He points out deliberately. “How about you be satisfied with that and call it a night? And go _sleep_ like you promised you would?”

“I can’t.” Matt tells him earnestly. “Whatever Black Sky is, it’s dangerous. It can’t be allowed to get into our city.”

 

“Wait, ‘whatever it is’?” Foggy asks incredulously. “You don’t even know what you’re looking for?”

 

“I do.” Stick cuts in curtly. “And I don’t need men who can’t even shoot a real goddamn gun getting in the way. Come on, kid.”

 

His footsteps move away a little, heavier than normal—telegraphing, making a point to Foggy about leaving. Matt doesn’t move.

 

“No, see? That right there is a problem. You have a crossbow with hunting arrows, and you don’t like non-lethal guns. So you’re going out on a mysterious mission with a weapon that kills, and you’re dragging him along with you. No.”

 

“Not really your choice, is it?” Stick goads. “Kid, let’s _go.”_

At least Stick isn’t using Matt’s real name. He must be able to sense that it’s something Matt hasn’t told Foggy yet—or maybe he just likes using the condescending ‘kid’ more. Heaven forbid Stick do something kind for once.

 

“No.” Matt jumps when Foggy reaches out and grabs his hand. “Stay here. You don’t want to go with him. There’s something weird about this. Stay with me instead, and we’ll figure it out.”

 

Matt licks his lips, body tensing towards Foggy.

 

“We’re running out of time.” Stick reminds him sharply. “Look, you can bring your boyfriend if you want, as long as he shuts his mouth and stays out of the way, but we need to go. Now.”

 

Matt nods, turning to Foggy.

 

“Do you want to come?” He asks.

 

He’s not sure if he wants Foggy to say yes or no. Matt feels better working with Foggy, more centered and relaxed. This is dangerous though. This is apparently a weapon of immense power. Matt still doesn’t want Foggy near any of this, no matter how much Matt wants Foggy near _him._

“No, I don’t want to come.” Foggy hisses. “And you don’t want to go. Come on, this is crazy. Someone’s going to end up dead, and your _acquaintance_ is going to be the one who makes them that way.” He tugs Matt insistently towards him. “Leave him. Don’t let him use you like this.”

 

“He’s not using me.” Matt denies, stung. “This is a temporary alliance. A partnership.”

 

“ _We’re_ a partnership!” Foggy says desperately, tugging at his hand again. “ _We_ are. You and me. Not him.”

 

“I know.” Matt soothes, stepping closer obediently and putting a hand on Foggy’s shoulder. “We’re partners.” The thought makes him warm despite the fraught situation. “But I need to do this with Stick tonight. You can stay with us, okay?”

 

Matt’s actually pretty sure Stick meant it as an unkindly fake offer, but that doesn’t matter. He really shouldn’t have said it if he didn’t want Matt to take him up on it.

 

“This is messed up.” Foggy mutters. “He’s crazy. Come on, just look at him. He’s going to shoot someone, and he doesn’t play nice like I do. He’ll shoot to kill.”

 

Matt shakes his head.

 

“He won’t. He promised there wouldn’t be any killing.” Foggy reaches up to grab Matt’s hand on his shoulder, stepping back abruptly and pulling Matt with him with both hands.

 

“And you _believed_ him?” Foggy asks incredulously. “ _Lethal arrows_.”

 

“Those are for destroying the weapon.” Matt explains.

 

“Are you kidding me? Those things are for hunting, pure and simple. The only thing they’re good for is destroying _people.”_

 

Matt frowns.

 

“Are you saying that you don’t trust my judgment?” He asks lowly, feeling irrationally upset. Foggy doesn’t understand what’s going on—of course he’s confused. The fact that he doesn’t trust that _Matt_ understands what’s going on, that’s what hurts.

 

“Generally? I trust you 100%.” Foggy promises. “In this particular instance? No way in hell. I think this guy’s whammied you or something, because you don’t _do_ this. You know something’s not right—that’s why you’ve been talking to me for the past five minutes instead of walking away.”

 

Right, deadline. They’ve got to do this tonight. Now.

 

Whether Foggy trusts him or not.

 

“Let me go.” Matt suggests softly, pulling gently where Foggy’s hands are wrapped around his wrists.

 

“No.” Foggy snaps, but it’s desperate. “This is a bad idea. Come on, you know me. You trust me more than you trust him, don’t you?”

 

“And you don’t trust me at all.” Matt murmurs, and this time he doesn’t bother being gentle. He just pulls away in one quick movement and steps back. “If you think it’s such a mistake, don’t come. But I want to help this city, so I’m going.”

 

“Are you saying I _don’t_ want to help this city?” Foggy’s voice is hoarse and hurt. “How can you even think that?”

 

And Matt doesn’t think it, not really. He’s just mad that Foggy doesn’t trust him enough to help, and that they’re fighting about it. Matt hates fighting with Foggy. They’ve only had minor spats, mostly about what to do with the criminals they catch, but nothing like this. They’re both saying things that Matt _knows_ they’re going to regret later.

 

 _God,_ Matt is going to regret this later.

 

“You protect the city your way then, and I’ll protect it my way. We’ll see which one works better.”

 

Foggy’s breath catches. Matt can taste salt in the air, and realizes with horror that Foggy’s crying.

 

“Fine.” Foggy’s footsteps are moving away quickly, almost running. “But my way means catching killers. If someone ends up dead tonight, I’ll catch you too.” Matt feels sick. Foggy can’t seriously think that Matt would let anyone die, can he? “Don’t…don’t be the one who ends up dead.”

 

His heartbeat’s fading away, too fast. Definitely running, and still salt in the air. Matt takes a step towards the retreating sound, then another. Five, ten, twenty. He needs to find Foggy. He needs to make this right. He needs—

 

“If you go after him, you’ll miss destroying Black Sky. You do that, your boyfriend will be dead instead of depressed.” Stick informs him harshly.

 

Matt freezes.

 

Dead. Foggy can’t die. If there’s anything Matt can do to keep him safe…

 

He’ll apologize tomorrow.

 

“Let’s just get this over with.” Matt mutters, turning back towards Stick and walking back the way he came. Away from Foggy’s heartbeat.

 

“Good choice. You’re better off without a sidekick weighing you—“

 

Matt’s not sure if Stick lets Matt catch him, or if he just doesn’t expect Matt to be this furious at his words. Either way it ends up with Matt’s hands wrapping briefly around Stick’s throat.

 

“ _Shut. Up.”_ He snarls. “And start walking.” Stick apparently gets tired of the threat, because he tenses to throw Matt’s hands off. Matt steps away before he can. “He’s my partner, and as soon as this is done, I want you out of our city. If you stay for even a second longer than you have to, I swear to god I will sic Nana on you.”

 

It would be the battle of the century. It would earn a place in history books. Stick might actually  _lose._

 

Stick snorts.

 

“Whatever the fuck that means, don't bother.” He scoffs. “You’re welcome to this hellhole.”

 

He starts running. Matt follows, although it feels wrong, like he’s wrapped in a rubber band and he’s stretching it the wrong way. It’s going to snap back, or it’s going to just _snap._ He wants to go back to Foggy instead. He will, later. He will, and Foggy might be angry for a while but Matt can fix it.

 

The rubber band feels tighter, cutting into his skin with phantom pain.

 

_Please don’t snap._

 

* * *

 

Someone ends up dead.

 

A _child_ ends up dead, not a weapon. A child—one with a strange heartbeat and an aura that makes Matt’s skin crawl, but a _child._

Lethal arrows.

 

Foggy won’t talk to him. He won’t answer any of Matt’s calls—although that might be because Matt never actually manages the calling part. He presses the buttons, types in the number, and then he can’t dial. He just can’t.

 

Foggy’s not going out as much, and when he does it’s on the north side. He’s staying as far away from Matt as possible, away from the areas they used to meet and laugh and kiss after a long night fighting together.

 

Matt can barely force himself to go out at all. Wherever he is, he hears Foggy’s heartbeat and his words echoing in Matt’s head. ‘I catch killers.’

 

Matt didn’t kill, but he didn’t stop Stick from killing either. Does that count? Does Foggy know yet, or is this just him being angry from their fight? Matt’s not sure what will happen if Foggy finds out and tracks him down. Matt won’t fight back, that much he knows, but he doesn’t know what _Foggy_ will do.

 

Honestly, Matt wouldn’t mind getting shot, if it meant Foggy would actually _talk_ to him. Matt could take a few bruises. He’s done it before.

 

He’s sitting in his office, pretending to do work by moving papers every few minutes with numb fingers, when he hears Foggy give his two-weeks notice.

 

‘I don’t think I’m cut out for this.’ Foggy says. ‘I’m not really a fighter, and that’s what I’d have to be here.’ He sighs. ‘I think it’s time for a change of scenery.’

 

And the supervisor makes sympathetic ‘hmms’ and ‘huhs’, and doesn’t do a single thing to change Foggy’s mind. He just promises to get Foggy the paperwork by the end of the day, and asks Foggy to finish the project he’s working on before he goes.

 

Matt can’t quite breathe. Foggy’s _leaving?_

He can’t be leaving. Work’s the only place Matt can actually get close to him anymore. At work, it almost feels normal. It feels like Matt could walk up to him at any time and smile, and Foggy would smile back like Matt _knows_ he used to.

 

Matt’s actually gotten as far as Foggy’s office door, over the last few days. He’s raised his hand to knock, heard Foggy typing and scribbling things down, and he’s been so _close._ He could open the door and kiss Foggy until Foggy forgets why they're fighting.

 

And it wouldn’t take Foggy more than a moment to recognize the kiss. He’d know that it was Matt, and he’d sigh and wrap his arms around Matt and kiss him back. Foggy _always_ kisses him back—it’s like they’re magnets, drawn together every moment. Even if he was furious, he’d kiss Matt back.

 

Right? Right. Definitely.

 

Matt’s too scared to check. He steps away, doesn’t knock, and walks back to his office. Then he sits down and pretends to work, and does it all again an hour later.

 

But he’ll only be able to do it all again an hour later for two more weeks.

 

Matt doesn’t understand. Landman and Zack can survive the scandal, and Foggy’s an asset to the company. He could stay as long as he wants, probably even make partner. And Matt knew Foggy wasn’t exactly thrilled to be here, but he’d finished his internship. He can’t have been entirely miserable, right? He’d laughed. He’d flirted. He’d walked past Matt’s office a dozen times a day.

 

He can’t just _leave._ Where is he going to go? A smaller firm, somewhere a little warmer? Somewhere more like Foggy? Matt tries desperately to think of every law firm in Hell’s Kitchen. Where would Foggy go?

 

‘I think it’s time for a change of scenery.’

 

Oh, _no._ What if he’s not going to a law firm in Hell’s Kitchen? What if he’s not staying in Hell’s Kitchen at all?

 

No, there’s no way. This is Foggy’s home. He loves it, just like Matt does. He wouldn’t go. Not while they’re still fighting. He wouldn’t leave without talking to Matt first.

 

Matt’s phone rings.

 

Burner phone, and for a moment he considers not answering it. Foggy won’t leave without talking to Matt—if Matt just avoids Foggy for a while, maybe Foggy will cool down and change his mind. Matt can avoid him. He can.

 

Matt answers his phone.

 

“Wilson Fisk.” Foggy tells him tonelessly. Matt blinks. “That’s the kingpin’s name. I thought you should know.”

 

Despite Matt’s misery, a sliver of elation works its way free. This is it. This is what they’ve been working for.

 

“Do we know where he is?” Matt asks, pushing away the papers he was pretending to work on. He’s got real work to do.

 

“About a dozen properties in the city.” Foggy says, still in that flat voice. “Probably a dozen others off the books. Apartments, restaurants, warehouses.”

 

“Addresses?” Matt wonders. He opens his desk drawer, pulls out the blank paper and pen that he keeps hidden for emergency notes. The Braille paper is very good for indents from the pen, easier to read later.

 

Foggy lists them off, careful enunciation to make sure nothing gets lost in translation. A dozen. They can hit maybe three a night, so four nights total. That means four nights of forced interaction to convince Foggy to stay.

 

“So, any preferences?” Foggy’s voice is a little more animated, but only a little.

 

“Well, I think the warehouses are more likely to have significant evidence of criminal activity, and they’ll have less people than the restaurants.” Matt muses. “Apartments might just be paranoia. Restaurants could be fronts, I suppose, but probably smaller operations, more meeting places than anything. So, start with the warehouses?”

 

“Okay. I’ll start with the restaurants then.” Foggy says absently. “Patron first. I could use a good meal or two.”

 

Matt drops the pen.

 

“What?” He feels like he’s just been shot in the chest by one of Foggy’s diabolo bullets. It won’t kill him, but it still _hurts._ “No, we’re going together.”

 

“I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.” Foggy tells him dully. “You were right. We have very different ways of protecting the city. I’m not sure that they work together as well as we thought.”

 

Matt shakes his head, even though Foggy can’t see it. Of course they work well together. Matt’s never worked so well with anyone in his life. Foggy was _made_ to be Matt’s partner, and Matt was made to be Foggy’s.

 

“Are you breaking up with me?” He tries to joke, but it comes out raw and wounded. There’s a quiet moment of measured breathing, and then Foggy sighs.

 

“I don’t think you’ll let me.” He admits softly.

 

It sounds wearily wry, not scared, but Matt still feels a chill go down his spine. He’d never _force_ Foggy to stay with him. He wants it, desperately, but he’d never force him.

 

“I’ll fix this.” He promises urgently. “I’ll make it right.”

 

There’s a long, terrifying moment of dead silence. It’s only because of his enhanced senses that he hears it. Something halfway between a laugh and a scream, muffled—Foggy covering his mouth with his hand, Matt thinks.

 

“Yeah, okay.” Foggy says finally. “So just do what you have to do.” Matt swallows hard.

 

“And you’ll help me?” Matt whispers. “You’re not going to leave?”

 

“Leave…?” Foggy sounds startled. “God, no. Why would I leave?”

 

Matt fairly collapses back in his chair. Foggy sounds genuinely confused, no guilt at all. Not leaving the city then. Just the firm. That’s fine. Matt’s been planning to quit for ages. He should have jumped ship long before now. Honestly, hearing Foggy every day was the only real reason he’d stayed this long.

 

“I don’t know.” Matt rasps, weak from relief. “You wouldn’t. You belong here.” _In this city. In the mask._

_With me._

“Yeah, I know.” Foggy agrees, and the flatness is gone from his voice. It’s a little sad, but it’s still Foggy. The lilts, rises and fall of intonation and emotion. “And I love it, even though I hate it sometimes too.”

 

“I understand the feeling.” Matt tells him gently.

 

He does. He loves being a lawyer, but he hates working for Landman and Zack. He loves the new worlds his senses opened up for him, but he hates that he had to burn his old world to find them. He loves the boundless, vicious joy of a good fight, but he hates that he loves it.

 

Foggy’s pretty much the only thing that Matt just loves, plain and simple.

 

“You have no idea how much I want that to be true.” Foggy murmurs, voice indecipherable. He clears his throat. “Right. So, take down Fisk. Win the war on crime. Then I guess we’ll do…everything else.” He finishes quietly.

 

There’s a lot of ‘everything else’ to deal with, but at least Matt will get a chance.

 

“Everything else.” Matt agrees faintly, slowly pushing himself to his feet. He’s sore already from the battle he knows is coming, but he also feels a rush of dizzy delight at the idea of it. He hates that.

 

He loves it.

 

* * *

 

“Hi.”

 

Matt winces. ‘Hi.’ Not exactly the smooth greeting that he was going for. Honestly, he doesn’t know what he was going for _. Just do what feels right_ , he’d told himself. _Follow your heart and listen to what it’s telling you._

 

Matt’s heart apparently thinks ‘hi’ is a good idea. Matt’s heart is an idiot.

 

“Hi.” Foggy says awkwardly. “You look…healthy.”

 

“I’m very healthy.” Matt assures him quickly. “Just a little bruised up from—“ _Stick. The man you told me not to trust._

 

“Yeah.” Foggy clearly connects the dots even without Matt saying it. Matt bites his lip. “Well. I’m glad you’re okay.”

 

“You too.” Matt says, even though there was never really any reason to think Foggy might not be. “Should we…?”

 

He has no idea how to finish that sentence. Should they what? Start looking? Start fighting again? _Stop_ acting like they’re exes that ran into each at the supermarket and are trying desperately to think of something nice to say?

 

“Uh-huh.” Foggy agrees, although Matt has no idea what Foggy filled in the blank with. “Good idea. Lead the way.” Matt hesitates.

 

“You can lead.” He offers, desperately trying to think of something nice to say. At least they don’t have to have this conversation over shopping carts filled with cookie dough and condoms.

 

“No.” Foggy says slowly. “No, you’re better at shortcuts than I am. It’ll go faster if you lead.”

 

Matt thinks Foggy’s probably trying to think of something nice to say too, and it’s working. Matt smiles tentatively.

 

“Alright.” He beckons Foggy closer, but turns away before Foggy takes a step. Matt might not be able to resist hugging him if he gets within reach, and he thinks now is probably not the time. “Try to keep up.”

 

“Sorry I’m not a freaky cheetah hybrid like some people.” Foggy mutters, and Matt hides his widening smile.

 

“I thought I was a lion that hunted law-breaking gazelles?” He points out, pressing his luck. Foggy snorts, and Matt blinks when he feels a pebble bounce lightly off of his shoulder—not hard enough to hurt, far too gentle for that, but enough to make a point.

 

“Rock, paper, scissors. Gazelle, lion, _gun_. Guess what beats lion?” Foggy offers sweetly. Matt considers.

 

“Does that mean gazelle beats gun?” He muses, and laughs when he hears the scratch of Foggy scooping more pebbles off the ground. “Sorry.”

 

“I’ll just bet you are.” Foggy returns tightly. “Start hunting your gazelle, Mr. Masked Mufasa.”

 

Matt grins and starts hunting.

 

It’s not as awkward as it could be. There’s very little talking, after that first encounter, but it’s not a cold silence. It’s just an uncertain one. Matt thinks Foggy’s not quite sure how to act either.

 

Are they still fighting?

 

It doesn’t feel like it, but Matt’s not sure. It seems impossibly easy to just have everything be okay like this. He’s not going to complain though. If his luck is finally turning around, he’ll take it and run.

 

His luck isn’t turning around.

 

An hour later, Matt steps away from Nobu’s unconscious body, feeling shaky but proud. Definitely not as bad as it could have been. Only a few minor cuts.

 

“Oh my god. He _actually_ brought a knife to a gun fight.”

 

Matt kicks the knife in question away, a scratching sort of clank as the chain moves across the floor with the blade.

 

“Actually, I think _you_ brought a gun to a knife fight.” He muses. Foggy laughs, and Matt grins, absurdly pleased despite his weariness. He made Foggy laugh.

 

“He was fast though.” Foggy sighs. “Sorry. I couldn’t get a good shot.”

 

Matt shakes his head, reaching out to put a careful hand on Foggy’s shoulder. Foggy doesn’t move away—good. Their first physical contact of the night is a roaring success.

 

“You kept him distracted, and you got more than a few hits in. I don’t know if I could have done it alone.”

 

It’s not a pacifying statement. Matt’s honestly not sure how it would have gone without Foggy there. Nobu hadn’t been pleased—had thought it was dishonorable, two against one with a rifle involved—but he hadn’t had much time to complain between dodging bullets and trying to fight Matt at the same time.

 

Dishonorable? Yes. Cheating? Probably. Does Matt regret it? Not in a million years.

 

“You’re sweet.” Foggy teases, but it’s absent. “Okay, pictures taken. I say we tie him up, call the cops and get out. With all the financial and legal reports we already have, we’ve got more than enough to take Fisk down. We talk to Danny and Karen about their reporter friend, get the story out everywhere and then find a lawyer dumb enough to take all the victims’ cases on.”

 

“The lawyer would have to be crazy too.” Matt points out. “Completely insane.”

 

He can’t wait. He’ll work for free if he has to. It’s not the money that matters. It’s being able to help people for once, what he’d dreamt of doing when he finished school. He turned in his notice, and he’ll be gone from Landman and Zack before the dust settles. Then he can tempt Foggy away from wherever he’s planning to work with offers of sweet justice and no real paycheck or job security.

 

The exact wording of the offer is a work in progress.

 

“Dumb and crazy. Sounds like my kind of people.” Foggy says wryly. “Shall we?”

 

They manage to tie Nobu up before Matt hears someone coming. More than one person.

 

“Hide.” He hisses, pushing Foggy away as hard as he can. Foggy yelps and stumbles. “Get somewhere high and hidden. Be ready to take a shot.”

 

“Great. Act two.” Foggy groans, but his footsteps move away, quick and light. Matt considers whether he should hide too, but the fact is that they must have heard something. They’ll start looking if they don’t find someone to blame, and there’s no way Foggy can get out in time.

 

So Matt stands bleeding in the middle of a warehouse and waits for something bad to happen.

 

Something bad happens.

 

Matt honestly hadn’t expected to be this angry about meeting Fisk. He thought he could stay calm and collected, but all he can think of is all of the names Foggy and he had found. All the people who Wilson Fisk hurt, ruined, killed in his insane purge of the city.

 

He wants, in a distant way, to kill Fisk too.

 

He won’t. Even if he were that kind of man, he couldn’t do it with Foggy watching. That doesn’t mean he can’t let a little of the rage out though. Do some damage.

 

Doing damage proves to be much harder than Matt anticipated. Fisk’s a wall of muscle and purpose, much stronger than Matt is even when he’s not hurt. He can’t win by brute force, which leaves skill.

 

But then again, skill isn’t working so well either. Fisk’s a giant. It’s like he’s made of stone. Hitting him actually hurts _Matt_ more than it probably hurts Fisk. His hands are already aching, and he’s exhausted from his earlier fight.

 

Foggy hasn’t made a move since the fight started. He’s waiting for a chance, Matt thinks. At least one of the other people in this room is armed. If he makes a bad shot, they’ll know he’s here and they’ll lose the advantage—what little advantage they have, and one that is rapidly dwindling.

 

If something goes wrong, Matt hopes Foggy will stay hidden instead of trying to fight them. Fisk seems like he could take a non-lethal bullet or a hundred without flinching.

 

Foggy’s not going to stay hidden. Matt can hear his breathing, steady and even. Too even. Foggy breathes like this when he’s concentrating, something he’d said his grandmother forced him to do when he was scared or upset. Stay calm, keep a steady hand. Get ready to shoot.

 

He’ll do better with a stationary target. That means getting Fisk to stay in one place. He’s after Matt, which means that if _Matt_ stays in one place, so will Fisk. Who knows what’s going on with his associates, who seem happy to let them duke it out without interfering. They must be very sure that Matt will lose.

 

Matt’s already acted fought dirty once tonight, and he really doesn’t think Fisk deserves a fair fight, so Matt grabs Nobu’s knife and stabs Fisk. That should keep him still for a while.

 

It doesn’t work.

 

“Body armor.” Matt realizes, numb. Fisk is wearing _body armor._

 

Forget a hundred non-lethal bullets. With body armor, Fisk could probably take a thousand. Matt doubts Foggy has a thousand bullets to spare.

 

Fisk takes advantage of Matt’s distraction, ruthlessly. A minute or two later Matt tastes blood in his mouth. There’s a slide of metal mechanisms shifting into place, a gun being readied for a shot. Fisk’s not even doing it himself, Matt thinks in disgust. He’s having his groupie do it.

 

Handgun, Matt diagnoses vaguely. Close range, it might not even hurt if it’s done right. It probably won’t be. Okay, that’s fine. Matt had been getting lazy lately, forgetting how cruel guns can be. Foggy makes them seem safer somehow, softer. This will be an effective reality check.

 

Steps closer, metal on skin, gun and glory. Ready, aim, fire.

 

Gunshot.

 

_Shotgun._

There is a surreal moment where no one moves and the world stands still. Matt thinks it’s shock—no one’s quite sure if they should be screaming or not. Then the world starts moving again. Matt staggers to his feet just in time to hear Fisk stagger back.

 

He’s probably down for the count, but Matt decides that one more punch can’t hurt. Or two. Okay, maybe five more punches could hurt a lot, but since it’s hurting _Fisk,_ Matt makes it six punches instead.

 

Satisfied, at least for the moment, Matt turns back towards the groupie—Wesley, Fisk had called him. The other guard’s already surrendering, saying he’s down and out and please don’t hurt him, but Wesley is loyal. His breath is quick with anxiety, but Matt thinks it’s not about getting hurt himself. It’s about his boss being hurt already.

 

Matt moves carefully towards him.

 

“He’s alive.” He promises. “And he’ll be fine. But fighting will only put both of you in danger. If you want to help him—“

 

Wesley doesn’t even bother answering. There, metal rasping on skin again, and Matt thinks he’s going for it. He’s still got the handgun and Matt’s a few feet away. Even if Wesley’s never fired a gun in his life, he could still probably make the shot. Matt gets the distinct feeling that Wesley has fired many, many guns in his life.

 

“I really wouldn’t do that.” Foggy says pleasantly. “Want to know a secret?” He doesn’t wait for a response. “My friend is the nice one. I’m bad cop, and you’re going to be target practice unless you _put the gun_ _down._ ”

 

Even Matt can’t quite contain a shiver at that. He’s genuinely unsure whether he’s turned on or terrified by Foggy right now. Probably a little of both, which _cannot_ be healthy.

 

There are a few moments of taut silence, and then Wesley drops the gun. Matt’s not stupid—the man’s almost certainly got a backup plan already in the works, some desperate but effective ploy that he’s going to employ in the next five seconds with devastating effect. He seems the type.

 

Matt knocks Wesley out before he gets his five seconds. Matt's too tired for backup plans tonight.

 

Then he knocks out the guard in one quick motion too, a little more gently than he did for Wesley. After all, the guard is the only one who _hasn’t_ tried to kill Matt tonight.

 

“Nice shot.” Matt tells Foggy, voice a little faint from weariness. “Enough to stop him cold without killing him. How did you calculate in the body armor?”

 

He’s never seen the like of it before. A tastefully made suit that can stop a knife—Matt certainly knows that _he_ wants for Christmas this year.

 

“Fisk was wearing body armor?” Foggy wonders, startled. “Wow, didn’t see that one coming. Who knew body armor could be so slimming?”

 

It takes a moment for this to sink in. Matt is leaning a little more towards terrified now than turned on, but not nearly enough. He’s clearly insane.

 

“You shot him.” Matt points out flatly. “With a _shotgun_. You must have known about the armor.”

 

“Nope, not really.” Foggy muses absently. “Hey, do we have any more rope?” There’s shuffling, probably him looking around for spare cord or ties. Matt grabs at his arm.

 

“No, you knew.” He argues urgently. “You had to. Otherwise you would have been shooting to…”

 

_To kill._

“Yeah.” Foggy agrees easily. Matt swallows, feeling cold. Freezing. “Man, I felt kind of bad, you know? But he sort of had it coming.”

 

Matt’s hand is shaking, but he doesn’t pull away.

 

“But we don’t kill people.” He tries weakly. Foggy tenses under Matt’s hand.

 

“Wait, _what?_ ” He gasps. “You thought I—Jesus, _no_. I know how to shoot a guy non-fatally with a shotgun. That’s like the first thing they teach you in Alaska. Without the body armor though, it would have…” He hesitates. “It would have done some damage, yeah. He probably would have spent the next month in the hospital, eating through a straw.”

 

 _Oh._ Matt’s breath catches. Now _that_ sounds familiar.

 

“But he would have lived.” Foggy adds desperately, clearly taking Matt’s silence the wrong way. “I promise he would have lived. I just needed to stop him fast, one-hit KO. He was going to kill you—I couldn’t just sit there, hiding and hoping that I got a good shot. He wouldn’t have even _felt_ a diabolo, and you were hurt, and I was scared, and he was going to _kill you,_ and—“

 

He gives a surprised squeak when Matt pulls him into a tight hug.

 

“Thank you.” Matt whispers into his ear. “You were perfect.”

 

He really is, Matt thinks dazedly. It’s like looking in a mirror—Matt was fascinated by mirrors as a kid, thought they were magic. Everything’s the same, but sometimes it’s just slightly different too. A refracted reality. Foggy and Matt make so many of the same choices, think so many of the same thoughts, but they’re _not_ the same. Foggy’s his reflection, in a way. A perfect complement, an ideal match. Opposite, but identical.

 

Sometimes you like what you see _in_ the mirror better than what you see outside of it.

 

“Aw, shucks. You’re making me blush.” Foggy drawls, but he sounds relieved. He tentatively hugs Matt back. “So, rope? Oh, hey! We can use the chain-knife thing. That’s almost poetic.”

 

Matt tightens his arms briefly before pulling away.

 

“A bit heavy-handed, but alright.” He agrees. He makes it about two steps before stumbling. Foggy catches him, slinging Matt’s arm around his shoulder to support him.

 

“Whoa, what’s wrong?” Foggy asks, alarmed. “You weren’t hit that badly, were you? Oh god, the chain-knife thing wasn’t poisoned, was it? Or was there something internal? Should I call an ambulance?”

 

Matt shakes his head, dizzy.

 

“I’m just a little tired.” He explains. Exhausted, actually. He’s also bleeding a bit—although not nearly as badly as he could have been—and aching from taking far too many hits. Not the worst he’s ever been after a fight, but still not so great. “I’ll be okay.”

 

“Uh-huh.” Foggy sounds skeptical, and worried. “Do you think you can make it home?” Matt nods, smiling apologetically.

 

“Definitely.” He promises. “I just need a second to catch my breath.”

 

He takes a deep breath to prove his point.

 

Then he faints.

 

* * *

 

“Good morning, sunshine.”

 

“Ngh.” Matt replies eloquently. He moves, a slight whisper of silk against his skin. Not his apartment. Somewhere new.

 

“I sort of figured out the texture thing, and Claire said silk but my bed’s got normal cotton, so I improvised. I hope you don’t mind. They’re a little big on you, but they’re clean.”

 

Matt rubs the material between the pads of his fingers. Definitely silk, but pajamas rather than sheets. _Foggy’s_ pajamas, a bit worn around the sleeves and smelling of gentle soap and spices.

 

Matt takes just a little longer than he has to, sitting up. He loves the slow slide of the silk on his skin, knowing that Foggy must have felt the same silk hundreds of times before now.

 

“Thank you.” His voice is cracked and a little croaky. A moment later he finds a bottle of water pressed into his hand. He smiles gratefully and takes a steadying sip before putting it aside. “So, we’re…?”

 

“At my apartment, yeah.” Foggy finishes. “Not the most glamorous place, but I like it alright.”

 

“It’s nice.” Matt assures him, quite honestly. The place might be completely hideous, but it’s got Foggy inside and also Foggy’s silk pajamas, so it’s automatically amazing. “You didn’t have to bring me here.”

 

He feels guilty that Foggy even had to think about it. Foggy snorts.

 

“Well, you never actually gave me your address.” He points out. “I could have left you with Claire, but she actually has a life to live and work to do, so I figured this was better. Plus I wanted to keep an eye on you, make sure you didn’t go running off into danger again without me.”

 

Matt wonders for a moment if he’s talking about the bombs or Stick, or maybe one of the other dozen times Matt’s run off into danger without him. Foggy doesn’t sound _mad,_ exactly, but there’s a certain exasperated tone to the words. Matt winces, smiling tentatively.

 

“Never again.” He promises. He thinks he’ll actually try to keep this promise. Bad things seem to happen when he’s separated from Foggy. “Fisk?”

 

“On his way to jail.” Foggy tells him smugly. “I mean, 50/50 that he’ll try to break out at some point before the trial, and 90/10 that he’ll get out even if he’s convicted, but hey. We can just catch him again.”

 

At least it’s a _‘we’._ Matt had been worried that their team-up for finding Fisk was a one-time deal. Foggy had seemed so hurt and weary. But now he’s saying ‘we’ and letting Matt wear his silk pajamas. He’s got to be here to stay.

 

“We can.” Matt agrees, toying with a loose thread at one of the sleeves a little shyly. “And you’re okay?”

 

“Peachy.” Foggy says, and it’s not entirely sardonic. “I finally got to use the shotgun. I’ve been itching to do that for months. Plus you totally fainted like a damsel. That was pretty fun.”

 

“I didn’t faint like a damsel.” Matt frowns, offended. “I just fainted.”

 

“Nope.” Foggy denies, delighted. “Full-on damsel. You _swooned._ I had to carry you home bridal-style—over the threshold and everything.” Matt bites his lip, face hot. “Hey, it’s fine. I’m just glad you were okay.” He soothes, and he sounds vaguely apologetic.

 

Honestly, Matt really didn’t mind the teasing, because the idea itself sounded rather appealing. He shakes the far-too-nice thought away and shrugs.

 

“Me too.” He offers with a bashful smile. “And _you’re_ okay?”

 

“Yup.” Foggy agrees. “Barely a scratch. See, this is why I use long-range weapons. I get to keep my porcelain skin and pretty face intact.”

 

“Too late for me, I suppose.” Matt mutters wryly, thinking of his growing collection of scars. Foggy hums thoughtfully.

 

“I don’t know. I mean, you have a pretty chin.” He muses. “So the rest of you is probably pretty too.”

 

Matt rolls his eyes and grins at this unusual compliment—he wasn’t aware that chins could be pretty—before he realizes the implications.

 

_Probably pretty._

Matt reaches up carefully and feels cloth over his eyes—the texture so familiar that he hadn’t even quite realized he was wearing it, drowsy as he was.

 

“I’m still wearing my mask.” He whispers, dazed. Foggy clears his throat.

 

“Uh, yeah, no worries.” He starts awkwardly. “I kept it on while I was getting you into PJs, and then I stepped out of the room while Claire did her magic. Since, you know, _she_ knows your name and face.”

 

Definitely a thread of frayed hurt in his voice. Matt winces. He hadn’t told Foggy about that part. Foggy knew that Claire was a friend to go to for emergencies, but Matt had never told him that Claire _knew._ Matt supposes Foggy found out anyway.

 

“It was an accident.” He admits, ashamed. “I’m sorry.”

 

“Eh, it means she can keep a secret. Which is good, considering she now knows _my_ name and face.” Foggy muses with purposeful lightness.

 

“You _told_ her?” Matt asks incredulously. Foggy hums in agreement.

 

“I mean, I was asking her to come to my apartment and stitch you up in the middle of the night. Wearing a mask seemed kind of rude, considering. Plus I’m not as crazy about my secret identity as you are. My family knows, my police friend probably does too, and I’m going to tell Karen and Danny soon. I might as well print up some business cards.”

 

“You never told _me.”_ Matt reminds him quietly. It’s true, but also not fair to say. Foggy never told him, but Matt knows anyway. He never even asked.

 

“That’s true.” Foggy agrees slowly. “Because I thought you wanted to keep things anonymous with us. Simple.”

 

“Nothing about you is simple.” Matt tells him wryly. “But I like you anyway.”

 

“Every other time I ever even hinted about taking off our masks, you freaked out.” Foggy points out bluntly. “Seeing each other’s homes, knowing each other’s names—all of it. You didn’t really seem…” He stops, sighing. “I thought you might just not be ready yet, and then after Stick I thought you might just not be ready _ever_.”

 

“I wanted to know.” Matt feels sick with guilt at the fact that Foggy thought he just wasn’t interested, instead of desperate but too afraid to ask. He pushes himself to his feet and starts walking towards Foggy’s voice. “Of course I wanted to.”

 

“It’s okay if you don’t though.” Foggy assures him quickly. “I put my mask back on before you woke up. We can just keep going like we did before, if you still want to be partners.” His voice wavers on the last word. “We could sit down, talk about ground rules and limits and what’s okay and what’s not.“

 

Matt gets close enough to touch Foggy’s cheek. Yes, there’s the cloth of a mask, and it feels suddenly scratchy against Matt’s skin. Harsh, heavy, wrong.

 

“This is okay.” He says softly. He steps away. “But this is better.”

 

Matt pulls off his mask.

 

The air feels surprisingly cool after his skin’s been covered for so long. Matt realizes that his hair is probably a mess, his jaw is unshaven and he’s too pale and a little sweaty. It’s probably not the best first impression he could give.

 

For a few seconds, he does something he hasn’t done in a very long time: he pretends not to be blind. He can focus his eyes enough using his senses to pass for having sight in a pinch, and there’s the surge of panic welling up just like before at the thought of Foggy not liking his eyes.

 

Then he reminds himself that the point of this is to _stop_ hiding, and he blinks once and stops pretending.

 

He tosses the mask to the floor and squares his shoulders, waiting for the verdict.

 

There’s a tentative footstep, then another. Foggy takes Matt’s hand and holds it up to Foggy’s mask, giving it a meaningful tug. Matt swallows and pulls the mask off, throwing it to the floor to join his.

 

“Hello, Matt.”

 

Matt’s not sure whether to laugh or cry.

 

“Hello, Foggy.”

 

Foggy yanks him into a tight hug.

 

“So, when did you figure it out?” He wonders, murmuring the words into Matt’s hair.

 

“Day after you shot my mugger.” Matt admits. “You have a very memorable voice.” He loves it. Foggy hums thoughtfully.

 

“Ha, I win.” He cheers. “Second I saw you in the mask. You have a very memorable _everything_.” Matt blinks, surprised. “What? You _do._ I mean, we worked together for how long? Not that I was creeping on you or anything, but I do walk past your office like a dozen times a day. Kind of hard to miss…all of that.”

 

He shifts in a way that makes Matt think he’s gesturing—rather broadly, in fact. Matt smiles, pleased. He’s not thrilled that it was so easy to figure out his secret identity, but at least it wasn’t because _Matt_ slipped up. It was because Foggy was checking him out so much. That’s not quite as embarrassing.

 

“I’m sure I would have done the same thing.” He offers eagerly. “Except for…” He gestures too, much less broadly. Just at his eyes, in fact.

 

“Yeah.” Foggy agrees. “I was actually curious about that one. Doesn’t really seem to slow you down much, does it? Actually sort of seems to speed you up.” He hesitates. “You said you liked the way I looked once. Was that just something sweet to say, or…?”

 

“I can’t use my eyes, but I can still see you.” Matt tries to explain. He swallows. “You still look beautiful.”

 

It’s so true. Foggy looks the same as before, a priceless work of art, but not the frozen art that hangs in galleries. Foggy’s a living, breathing masterpiece—moving light, flickering flame, heat dancing in Matt’s senses. And Matt _knows_ him now, knows him by heart. He’s not just a painting to appreciate on a wall and walk away from—he’s the one you bring home and treasure for the rest of your life.

 

“Oh.” Foggy murmurs softly. “That’s…thank you. You’re not so bad yourself.” He returns, just like he did the first time. Still beautiful, still not so bad. “I was right. You _do_ have pretty eyes.” He runs a finger over Matt’s eyebrow. “I do too, in case you can’t see that part. Completely stunning, limpid pools of starlit indigo sky.”

 

And that draws a startled laugh out of Matt.

 

“So, blue.” He translates. Foggy gives a disgruntled huff. Matt smiles. “I like blue.”

 

“Really?” Foggy asks, perking up considerably. Matt nods.

 

“I love blue.” He whispers, voice a little shaky. “Favorite color.”

 

“Good.” Foggy murmurs. “Mine’s red.” A gentle brush of his index finger tracing along Matt’s lips. Cherry red, he’d called them before. Perfect. “So I guess that works out pretty well.”

 

“Incredibly well.” Matt agrees, and he finally gets to tangle a hand in Foggy’s hair when he’s kissing him. Foggy has amazing hair, Matt notices fondly—soft and silky. He probably spends forever on it in the morning. Matt almost feels bad messing it up.

 

Almost.

 

“You know, we should color coordinate our nighttime outfits.” Foggy muses, breath warm against Matt’s skin. “I can wear red, and you can wear blue. It’ll be a gimmick. All the cool heroes have a gimmick.” Matt hums, still playing blissfully with Foggy’s hair.

 

“I’m red.” He argues. “Devil of Hell’s Kitchen. Might as well run with it. You’re blue to match your limpid pools.”

 

“Screw you.” Foggy mutters, pushing him away but not very hard. “This dynamic duo is hereby disbanded. I’m going solo.”

 

Matt grins, catching him again.

 

“No, all the expert marksmen work in teams. You need a bruiser to do the melee fighting. Sort of like Hawkeye and—“

 

"Black Widow." Foggy finishes easily. "Cute, little hint of red in the hair, and a consuming need to bash as many heads as possible while still looking pretty. You're Black Widow—except for the fact that you can't shoot a gun like she can." 

 

"And I'm a man." Matt adds pointedly. Foggy stays conspicuously silent. "Okay, I get it. You don't shoot arrows and I'm a man. No more teasing, I promise." Foggy makes a sound of agreement, and Matt really should stop, but it's just so much  _fun._ "Although I've heard that you _can_ get arrows for air guns. So if you think about it, you actually  _could_ be just like—" _  
_

“ _Don’t you dare finish that sentence._ ” Foggy growls. “I swear to god, Matt—Mm.” He stiffens for a moment, and then relaxes into the kiss.

 

“You called me Matt.” Matt grins when he pulls away. Foggy snorts.

 

“Well, I couldn’t just keep saying ‘hey you, the dummy with the death wish’ for the rest of our lives. It takes too long. ‘Matt’ basically means the same thing anyway.” Foggy teases. Matt should be offended, but Foggy said ‘Matt’ again.

 

“Anything you say, _Foggy_.” Matt replies dutifully. “Partner.”

 

It makes him giddy to say. He has so many plans. They’ll work out the kinks, iron out the misunderstandings. There’s never going to be another Stick Situation again. And they’re both about to be free agents in the legal world—Matt’s sick of working for people who don’t care, and he thinks Foggy is too.

 

Matt is planning to start his own law firm, but to do that he’ll need a partner. Someone clever, capable, who can somehow stand working with Matt for extended periods of time. Someone who will understand when Matt needs to leave early and show up late, who won’t ask questions about how Matt got bruised up last night. A confidante, a friend, and everything else too.

 

Someone like Foggy.

 

“I’ve always wanted a partner in crime.” Foggy admits. Matt shakes his head, leaning to press a light kiss to Foggy’s hair and sighing happily at the softness of it. He thinks he might have a thing for Foggy’s hair.

 

“Partner in crime- _fighting.”_ He counters, beaming. “Which is much more fun.”

 

“Pretty fun.” Foggy agrees. “Okay, Mr. Devil of Hell’s Kitchen. Help your partner in crime-fighting come up with a cool name. I’m thinking something simple but sexy. Caliber. Fire Form. _Fog of War—_ which is an actual shooting term by the way, so it totally fits with the gun theme and is also a delightfully cheeky reference to my real name. It’s like this is destiny, you know?” He pokes Matt slyly. “Come on, try to top that.”

 

Matt considers for a moment. Fog of War is a bit dramatic—says the _Devil of Hell’s Kitchen_ —but there must be something…

 

“Diablo.” He offers cheerfully. “Like the bullet.”

 

“ _Diabolo.”_ Foggy corrects him, amused. “ _Diabolo_ bullets.” Matt shrugs.

 

“Artistic license.” He explains smoothly. “Besides, you wanted a theme. The Devil and Diablo. Pretty catchy.”

 

“No, pretty dorky.” Foggy mutters. “Fog of War is cooler.” Matt grins at him.

 

“Whipped cream and a G-string if you pick Diablo.” He tempts. Foggy mulls this over.

 

“Add in a bowl of cherries and I will _think_ about it, if you’re good.” Matt opens his mouth to argue. “And if you are _very_ good, I will consider letting you wear red, even though I know I’ll regret it later. No horns though—this isn’t a costume party.”

 

“Of course not. Horns would be silly.” Matt agrees quickly. He’s totally getting the horns. He’s also getting the whole thing made by Fisk’s body armor tailor just in case Foggy gets a little trigger-happy when Matt teases him too much.

 

He’ll get one for Foggy too, indigo sky-colored. And he’ll get Foggy’s with horns too, so they can match. Foggy will learn to love the horns eventually.

 

“Well then, I guess we have a deal.” Foggy says happily. “But you always cheat with our deals. No cheating.” Matt smiles sweetly, crossing his fingers behind Foggy’s back before he pulls him in for a kiss.

 

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” He vows solemnly. “And you won’t cheat either, right?”

 

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Foggy echoes warmly. His heart spikes for a brief moment before he gets it back under control. Lie.

 

Matt grins. Foggy’s just as bad as Matt is, which is what makes them so very _good_ for each other.

 

Nelson and Murdock, attorneys at law and vigilantes at night. Foggy and Matt, friends and partners for the rest of forever.

 

Two Devils fighting side-by-side, tied together by a bond of passion and a darker love of justice.

 

It's a match made in heaven.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, vigilante!Foggy actually got to shoot people. Cop!Foggy from Bang Bang is totally jealous. Although at least cop!Foggy doesn't have to prance around in blue leather with nubby little horns on his head. I doubt vigilante!Foggy will stand for it either, no matter what Matt can do with a bowl of cherries.
> 
> I feel like I messed some canon details up here, and also bent believability too far. Ah, well. It's fiction. Not entirely joking about Alaska though. I have a friend from there, and he legitimately knows how to fire pretty much every gun in existence since he's been doing since he was a wee tot. He would be so ashamed of me right now.


End file.
